There is a certain illusion
that arrivals and departures are different,
that ways are just obstacles that, in the end,
lead us to an endpoint.

They just lead us into new ways.

My ways feel the weight of my feet, my wheels,
of cars and buses and trucks and tanks;
they feel the weight of heavy conscience, of tears and of guilts.
And, in return, they lead us to who knows where.

We spend our entire lives building ways in forms of
bridges, roads, tunnels, trails and rails.
Leveling, tearing, drilling, exploding some ****** land
in order to get somewhere.

I walk through roads in neighborhoods
through books and program codes,
through notes in songs,
through colors in the sky,
through dreams and imaginations,
because life is the ultimate way:
from birth to death.

It would be unwise to believe that the way is not important