The Rider by Naomi Shihab Nye

Hello, weekend. Crossing my fingers I get to write and not go back to my desk to work. Or maybe I should go out and see some friends, just to keep the melancholy at bay. A few days ago I have started another journal to talk about the creative process (ha! how pretentious) — well, my creative process, as an attempt to dissect myself and maybe understand if I have a method behind the madness. Been living in my head for far too long; I need to feel that I’m not the only one who’s like this. I feel that by talking about it, by forcing myself to face how I go about my life, then maybe I can learn how to gather my bearings once in a while. And yeah I started it because I can’t afford a shrink (heh), and I really wanted to see one.

Anyway. Here’s one of the loveliest poets ever:

The Rider
Naomi Shihab Nye

A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,

the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.

What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.

A victory! To leave your loneliness
panting behind you on some street corner
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
no matter how slowly they fell.



  1. You are not the only one who feels like that. I could have written the very same words, for I have thought them many times. When I try to gather my bearings (also without the needed shrink), I think of this poem: “Being Lived”.

    Lately, I’m trying to remember what it is I do and don’t like. I’m trying to do the things I used to like and at least recognize the things I don’t, even if, for now, I have to keep doing them.

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