The trench is dug within our hearts
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters
Torn apart
Sunday, Bloody
Sunday
Sunday, Bloody
Sunday
How long...
How long must we
sing this song?
How long, how
long...
~U2, Sunday,Bloody Sunday
We all know what
it feels like to be homesick. The many months in a foreign land, the unfamiliar
sounds of a different country. After the hours on the road, you drag yourself indoors, ready for
the weariness and discomfort to cease, ready to embrace that unconditional
lover: the couch.
But sometimes, there
are problems that have no solution. Ever had a dream in your head? Perfect and
untouched, the idea for a poem, or a book, or a piece of art? But when you take
up the pen, the words cannot describe it. You know exactly what you’re talking
about, but everything you try feels wrong, a futile attempt to describe a
greater truth. You throw language at an object, but nothing captures the
essence of it. The painting is just a scrawled crayon glimpse of an
uncapturable vision. Sometimes, we feel a hunger that nothing satisfies.
