We are pilgrims in the earth and strangers—
we come from afar and we are going far.
–Vincent van Gogh
Abroad for some time now
following our family’s wishes
without much success or happiness.
I sense their exasperation,
their disappointment growing—
soon there will be no tolerance left,
even for an eldest son.
I prefer not to speak of it
except to you, brother.
I hold up a mirror
to the deep things which pass
through me, sometimes flickering,
sometimes blazing, always indomitable—
feeling no connection to these plans for me.
This I freely admit.
On my visits home
there’s all manner of shouted arguments,
pointless exchange of opinions,
father’s directives on the measured life.
Living in profound hesitancy,
under a cloud, unsure, questioning,
a momentous inconclusion, of no use,
my aspirations untranslatable,
denied recourse by his god of theologians.
I was taken
by the landlady’s daughter
but she remained…
well, unimpressed by such eagerness,
a little put off,
frightened off by my advances
after blurting out
only the sincerest feelings—
pulling her further out
than she wanted to be,
an expression of a union
a little too intense.
There’s the matter
of what I’m favored to admire,
lofty sentiments suffering
all inelegance and outward appearances,
my impulsive generosity and shyness,
the strange prospects of the heart—
that which sets us free
cast in its heightened hopes
and confused emotions,
all its mysteries and passions,
an exhibition of grief and wonderment.
Uncertain of the direction,
disaffected, but never prosaic,
a wanderer, taking on the lostness
of everyone, my own way forward
lies elsewhere—
let their easy answers
catch up with me.
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