Sometimes I just find flashes of you… In a ticket, stubs, lots of ticket stubs. Before I would feel like life clings to me, now I find I cling to life. Worried about inane things, thinking what it would be like if the world ended before I get to see you again.

With each air mile I lost count of, I lost count of each goodbye. Some people are born of the road, their blood is like cement, on a trail, colouring the earth of its own accord. There is no path, only the stars, already dead in the sky. Fate did not make them orphans, their loved ones did. They do not search for their souls, they wait for their souls to find them, they know that some day they will.

There is no where else for them to be but on the road to no where fast. When the devil kept their souls, the wind came in empathy and rested within them where no peace would. They listen to it, the wind inside them, whispers when it is time.

They know, they feel it, moments around them begin to lose meaning and memories no longer matter. Surely day by day it becomes easier to say goodbye, that is when they know it is time to go. The road winds through them, into houses they walk through, seas they stand in, trees they leave through… The road winds and binds them to everything and nothing, at most a fragmentation of them.

What is home? Is it a sense, a feeling, a situation or a destination? How do I get there, where is this abstract notion where ever that maybe, is, was, a journey. Or is it just a word?


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