Last night I listened to some unknown blues band belt out the following

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
-- Bob Dylan, “Like a Rolling Stone”

as I stood next to a river. In the dark. Jamming fists into my pockets as deep as they would go. Hands that constantly seek change and reaction. And fighting the urge to sway to the music. To show anything at all.

There are questions that I never asked or answered. About needs and how to catapult myself closer to their desired end. About desire itself. Passion and loneliness. Or the stark confrontation made upon returning that reminded me how impossible and destructive attempts to possess another person’s body can be. And I am disappointed in myself, that I didn’t have the ability to say that hard and fast reactions found within the confines of healing hands reveal other needs outside of my own. That it isn’t only me out there looking for something.