Post by Ken Corbett on Dec 22, 2008 13:04:09 GMT -5
I am stting in the kitchen of my snug little house, watching the snow pile up in the yard. My loving partner is in the drawing room down the hall, listening to Rod Stewart croon on the disc player.
My other self is trudging down a snow-swept road in the dark, hours before dawn, looking at the lights in the windows of the isolated farmhouses as they cast their four-squared glare on the icy snow. I no longer stick out my thumb, I know that hitchhikers are drug-crazed killers and no one stops to pick them up anymore.
Somewhere, maybe in the next clutch of hovels I will pass through, is a barn door left open, where I might sidle in on the sly and grab a couple of hours rest before the farmer rousts me and brandishing a stout pitchfork, sends me on my way. Where will I find my next meal? When will I see another kind face?
« Coffee's hot, honey. Do you want a bun with that? »
« Yes, darling. I'll be right there. »
I know it's madness. But I want to be the other me, I feel I know him well and he deserves a chance in the real world.
I must never set him free. I keep him locked in my mind.
My other self is trudging down a snow-swept road in the dark, hours before dawn, looking at the lights in the windows of the isolated farmhouses as they cast their four-squared glare on the icy snow. I no longer stick out my thumb, I know that hitchhikers are drug-crazed killers and no one stops to pick them up anymore.
Somewhere, maybe in the next clutch of hovels I will pass through, is a barn door left open, where I might sidle in on the sly and grab a couple of hours rest before the farmer rousts me and brandishing a stout pitchfork, sends me on my way. Where will I find my next meal? When will I see another kind face?
« Coffee's hot, honey. Do you want a bun with that? »
« Yes, darling. I'll be right there. »
I know it's madness. But I want to be the other me, I feel I know him well and he deserves a chance in the real world.
I must never set him free. I keep him locked in my mind.
