(originally written in a plane over Newfoundland, December 1st, 2013)
How many goodbyes can you fit in a month? If you try, if you drive; bring each one to the doorstep. Say hello, knowing full well you'll regret it in turn.
And if we're honest, I cannot begin to understand myself alone, and hardly should I want that. But to know the same places forever? I think each life holds us back. If my loneliness is in the soles of my shoes, with each step I'll leave some tread.
But surely, travel is delusion, right? That if one can string enough lives together he might find himself whole. Inevitably, I'll find it new in each pause, as if I had never forgotten what it was to sit alone with thought.
And just like how this plane races the spin of all that lives and breathes and dies, there might I be too, racing the love and hope I'd sewn. Arbitor of soul. Lover of life. Swallower of destiny. And a filthy scoundrel, surely, a villain to those who matter most.
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