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Why is that sometimes

peace is found only

at the edge of a cliff

overlooking a vast panorama

with green hills in the distance

and boundless blue sky beyond?

Why is it that sometimes

the body yearns to be in

five different places at the same time?

Patagonia, Morocco, the Amazon,

Santorini and the Stonehenge.

Is it restlessness?

Is it wanderlust?

Or is it just the call of the pagan temple?

Why is it that, sometimes, you worry

so much that it could cleave your soul

though you know there is no such need?

Why is there no calm in prayer

even in the holiest of holy temples

but comes when you touch ancient rock?

Why is there no refuge in writing,

that which was once the only escape?

Why does the heart not find what it seeks?

And why is it still so hard to let go?

Why does it always feel

like you’re living on the wrong side

of the thin line that divides

reality and imagination?

Why do you keep searching

when you know there are no answers?

Yes, I (used to) write stuff like this.