Simultaneously I Am Myself, The Child I

Here I Am, Safely Returned Over Those Peaks From A Journey Far More Beautiful And Strange Than Anything I Had Hoped For Or Imagined - How Is It That This Safe Return Brings Such Regret?

You See ... A Man Like Me, A Cautious Man, Has His Life All Figured Out According To A Pattern, And Then The Pattern Flies Apart. You Run Around For Quite A While Trying To Repair It, Until One Day You Straighten Up Again With An Armful Of Broken Pieces, And You See That The World Has Gone On Without You And You Can Never Catch Up With Your Old Life, And You Must Begin All Over Again.

In Nonfiction, You Have That Limitation, That Constraint, Of Telling The Truth.

I Have Never Figured Out How Women Work But I Do Know That Their Skin Color Has No Significance. Black Or White, Every Last One Is Pretty Pink On The Inside And They Are All Impossible.

How Could I Say That I Wished To Penetrate The Secrets Of The Mountains In Search Of Something Still Unknown That, Like The Yeti, Might Well Be Missed For The Very Fact Of Searching?