Going back to Jack Kerouac's prose is like going back to an old lover. With arms you know and touches you understand. His prose brings with it memories of comforts lost. Of moments shared. Though i feel so comforted in Jack's prose, i know it cant last. That all i'm doing is pretending again. Im pretending to be the same girl i was then. She loved those arms and lived for those touches. But im not her. I'm someone else now. And as much as i hate to admit it, Jack's prose doesnt hold me the way it used to. I am loose in his grip and distracted in his eyes. Not that i know where i am, i just know im not there anymore.
Maybe thats why i switched to scifi/fantasy. There's always something new, something different. Some new epic adventure. I guess i've become the kind of woman who is distracted easily and doesnt get touched like she used to. Maybe that says a lot more about me than i'm willing to admit.
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