26 Oct

I wrote this either really at night or early morning while sitting in the Port Authority bus station between 9pm and 5am. By the way it was an interesting few hours to add to the two months I spent in Bristol, Virginia. It gave me a lot of time to think…


Scared travellers… not knowing anything, Lost no information on where we need to stand and wait to move to walk to sit… and wait again. For what home or family, start a new life… terrifying new adventures starting or continuing. What are we to find out about ourselves… that we are not as brave as we thought or that we are stronger than we thought. What will we have written on the side walks, on the street corners, on the window panes? Where will people read your story, and what story will they know? Will they know your real story or just a story to disguise the true story? Will your story have a grand finale, or a few words spoken softly? Better yet what do you see as your story’s ending? Or will it mirrror “The Neverending Story” and it’s content whatever your reader can imagine. I’ve never thought about my own story, looking through the intro you might read a happy childhood progressively growing more complex and sad with additives of happiness, longing for love. In the heart of the story cufusion and a sense of being lost and a nomad with no set home… how the story continues towards its inevitable end, no one will know until I write the words, draw the pictures and stitch together the binding. The rest of our stories are mysteries and buried treasure waiting to be told and discovered. We can map out and write drafts with crossed out errors we wish we could erase and forget. Lost in a first and very rough draft… but in life we get only a first draft. So make it a story that people will read over and over again even after we have passed. What will be our defining moment… What will our fellow nomads remember in passing bys… what footprints will we leave for others to follow?


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