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There is little margin (by Josh Mandel)

There is little margin for blaming circumstance. If there was ever a feeling of momentum, of drifting windswept through the waters of change, this was nothing more than illusory. At every bifurcation has lain a kernel of choice. After all, of course, the decision to drift is itself a manifestation of will.

There is little, then, to blame if I find myself three months into this expedition with parched lips and an empty canteen. And there are only so many times one can lift the depleted supply to one's lips and still recognize with some degree of surprise that nothing remains.

I am tired of doling out emotions in one-hundred-word fragments. But then sometimes I wonder whether I emote at all. At what depths does a momentary wave of sadness reverberate? And the nostalgia that looms, seems to pervade my nights and loneliness: how far does it penetrate?

[randomly selected from 21 poems/paragraphs here]

(who the heck... ?)