Paradox of Place

A room of one's own, as Virginia Woolf called it. That place in which to do that thing--writing, painting, thinking--that is the means by which one can process and explore and describe the world.

That place in which one can, in some small way, begin to traverse the rift between the world that is and the world that could be.

That place to escape and, in escaping, fully engage.

The place where, in all comfort and solace, the lack of comfort and solace is contemplated and formed into something meaningful.

I long for this place, even when I'm here.

*

small talk
having been broken twice
into shards of shards