I Will Walk Heavy, And I Will

Tom Gets By, Navidson Succeeds. Tom Just Wants To Be, Navidson Must Become. And Yet Despite Such Obvious Differences, Anyone Who Looks Past Tom's Wide Grin And Considers His Eyes Will Find Surprisingly Deep Pools Of Sorrow. Which Is How We Know They Are Brothers, Because Like Tom, Navidson's Eyes Share The Same Water.

We All Create Stories To Protect Ourselves.

Stories Heard But Not Recalled. Letters Too. Words Filling My Head. Fragmenting Like Artillery Shells. Shrapnel, Like Syllables, Flying Everywhere. Terrible Syllables. Sharp Cracked. Traveling At Murderous Speed. Tearing Through It All In A Very, Very Bad Inreparable Way.

So Often I Wonder Whether It Is My Right To Capitalize, As I Feel, So Often, On The Grief Of Others. But Then I Justify, In My Own Particular Thoughts, By Feeling That I Can Contribute A Little To The Understanding Of What Others Are Going Through; Then There Is Reason For Doing It.

My Hands Resemble Some Ancient Tree: The Roots That Bind Up The Earth, The Rock And The Ceaselessly Nibbling Wordms.