Empty Days

Friday, August 06, 2004



Again tried to set my mind on the task by reading Ken Kifer's Bike Pages. He was one lucky bastard to live in some small town in Alabama and travelling like mad between towns and to his cabin in the woods. The bikes were his passion - or rather being on the bike and moving a lot.

I can understand that frame of mind but I can't reproduce it. There is this almost childish trusting quality in roaming the space as if the whole world were your home and you just wanted to discover more of it. That trust I definitely don't have. I know what it feels like but I've lost it - and I am longing to regain at least some parcel of that original sense of being at home in the world, to be king in the kingdom.

Heh. Here's the little poem Ken wrote while biking. Pretty telling, because that's what it's all about in the end:

The warm, wet wind blows me along
As I ride my bike in the cream moonlight
Down the road that leads from my home.
The sky's black-blue, the clouds are white,
The stars are silver dots. To me belong
The night and sky, as all are 'sleep except for me,
Me and those puff clouds that smoothly roam,
And like them, I long to be free.

Well, when I bike along at night through the city that's not how I feel at all. I feel like a passing shadow in a world where I don't belong. Nothing is mine, not even my shadow on the road. Because there is no home where to start from and come back to - that simple.





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