I never the met the guy. I was in Poor Richard’s book store in the Springs a few days ago and bought a copy of Jack Kerouac’s “On the road.”  There was old folded piece of paper with a barely legible poem. It was signed simply: Saul.

 

Sometimes, he sits alone.

He sits like stone,

unmoving.

His static motion masked

the commotion in his mind and

lay hidden was the turmoil of his soul.

Inside he was chaos—

falling through the liquid reflection of himself;

drowning in an ocean of an identity crisis

—as fluid memories of a self-doubting existence

whitewashed the insides of his granite façade

flushing away any chance for relief.

 

Reality was too heavy a burden.

 

He spirit struggled on the brink of collapse

striving in vain to reach a horizon of calm,

a measure of sanity.

Oppressed by reality

-thick and heavy in his lungs-

he labored in silent futility

for peace of mind.

 

Can you run fast enough to get away from yourself?