It's incredible how easily and fluent I have become at clinging to shores. Perhaps I'm mostly out at sea and when I see signs of momentary port I sail towards them like the wind, with desperation to belong. You are a port I always cling to. So was he, until recently, until I realised he wasn't a port at all, but a floating buoy. A larger than life, land-like, convincing buoyant buoy, but a buoy-non-the-less. I made a book, wrote a poem about that cling-to port, and it cleverly foresaw all the drifting that inevitably came. Drifting. I recognise it all too easily. We all mostly drift, to and from one decision-denied to the next, in and out of commitment to anything, to anyone; we silently hope the seas will carry us somewhere familiar, or to somewhere new. But carry us they do. It's so very hard to swim against that tide.
I've tap danced to mr. bojangles on a pint of guiness and it finally makes more sense.