There was once a tipsy traveller with a briefcase full of relics that in his short a life he so dearly cherished.
In it was a jar of ashes, a memory of sorts. His dad, his mom. His folks. These people who had for so long parted into a world made of dashes.
There was an old tattered journal, eaten at the edges. Unending pages full of thoughts so fiery. Revolutionary even, but left to fade away in the guts of a diary
He had a compass that sometimes had a true North… That could bring forth, direction and reliability… Sometimes deniability…no north, no south. Creating doubt.
He had a toy too…that made him joyful. He could stare at it all day… Play, stay that way. It was such a delight…but something wasn’t right. Alone was such a lonely flight.
There was a ring of gold that he had almost sold to the highest bidder, because of the thoughts it triggered. A lost love once wore it well; an untold spell.
He had a letter. Wish I could say it better.. A message really, written entirely in tears… a mother’s consolation to her son’s fears.
A leather bag full of coins, the earnings of a poor man’s choice. To sell out his dreams, to just live and pay his bills.
To sustain his aches and pains, he had a vial of liquid death for his veins. Coursing through his body, he felt alive and somehow godly. High enough to feel naughty, haughty, foggy.
Time as a whole fled by him so fast , as he looked into the hourglass. It ran not on sand, but hands. The short hand and the long hand. The minute and the second tick tocked their way into his Armageddon.
It was hopeless to say that he had a meaningful sense of direction. For of all the things that he had, he lacked a map. A sort of snap, of the place that he was destined for.On all fours he’d fall, feeling empty and lost. Through the fog and the mist; would he be missed ?
And so with the last rays of the sun dissapearimg through the trees with his faith unpleased; he would get out his mother’s letter, read it while wearing the sweater she had neatly knit for him.
It was such a short letter. Wish I could say it better…a message really, written entirely in tears… a mother’s consolation to her son’s fears.
Keep Moving Forward.
The Mantra that kept him tortured, insighted him onward to something warmer. Towards the dying sun he crept, praying, baying for it’s rays.
Until he was an old man, a tired traveller, with a briefcase full of relics that in his short a life, he soberly cherished.
Touching the sun, they became forever one.
Around here, however, we don’t look backwards for very long. We keep moving forward, opening up new doors and doing new things, because we’re curious…and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.