I was carried away in a green and grey chariot
faster than lightning at the break of dawn, faster
than the years that were to age us.
[motorising distance into something fluid, two
hundred miles was mobile, a mere matter
of eight hours or so with stops in-between, it seems
that we lost and shed our smog soaked skin, that day–]
Now, that green and grey chariot is a ramshackle old thing,
it has taken me away and halfway back again, in my new
middle ground, equilibrium unexpected. It trundles the miles
like a time machine, filled and unfilled, dawns and evenings
and sparkling, secret gold spilled over and over and into luscious clear lakes,
and dreams. It felt like freedom, to be mobile, to be
propelled from painful knowledge that I am known
into the blossom of anonymity and a chance at definition,
from that moment onwards I told myself I was new.
my story is one, even now, that I choose to tell backwards:
starting with the future and the dreams of my ideal,
and ending with that which shaped me, information too
heavy, too monumental for others to know, too important,
too vulnerable. I guard my secrets fiercely, knowing
that with secrets comes intimacy, and trust, oh, trust.