This used to exist under a page called Dealing in my files. I think it gets what I am. Maybe.

Words are the conduit for poetry, rivers of soul, pouring into paper, and not paper, untouchable, intangible but readable, and one point where you know what someone else, stranger (unknowable, neverknown) felt, perceived, saw, meant in a single moment and it clicks in a way that almost hurts, and if he were telling you in person, you’d be the annoying idiot interrupting and going, ‘oh, I’ve felt that, exactly that,’ demeaning their experience, their wonder, their wow.

Wanderlust.

To feel the yearning for, oh, roads walked alone, far and cool, beauty seen perceived, moved through, worshiped, oh. Of sea-sides and rivers, mountains. Goat paths, dirt tracks, and long open stretches of road, of companionship, intimate, close companionship, and no other. Of tiredness at the end of the day, of the satisfaction of the path well walked, of the independance of one walked, oh, almost alone.

Oh of roads walked alone, long long roads, never ending, stretching behind and ahead, forking. Choosing directions on whim, following the wind. Of lack of fear, of... doing what ever your heart desires, of consequence-less, aimless wandering.

Of seeing the world, cliche as the phrase is. Of wanting, wanting, wanting, ceaselessly. Wanting out.

Of wanting to fly. Oh. of longing to fly.

All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.