So many “road stories” from the Odyssey, and Kerouac, to Augustine. Each rich in emotion and spirit most of the stories have the hero hitched to a fellow traveler to bathe the soul in word and mood to throb with the music.
I have recurring dreams. I’m in a hotel looking for an elevator can’t find my floor or room or can’t find my car downtown. I wander streets, and lots. Are there road stories hidden in these dreams?
Why do I trip, fall stay misplaced and lost find only transitory destinations?
I did not believe, standing on the bank of a river which was wide and swift, that I would cross that bridge plaited from thin, fragile reeds fastened with bast. I walked delicately, as a butterfly and heavily as an elephant, I walked surely as a dancer and wavered like a blind man. I did not believe that I would cross that bridge, and now that I am standing on the other side, I do not believe I crossed it.
time slips from my fingers when i count each passing day that passes by like passerbys on a busy street walking past me, my disillusioned form an escaped daydream from a chronic sleepwalker a recurring thought
the clinking of atoms like drinking glasses the passage of space things don't make sense nowadays never really did
i'm just a ghost with no body to call home translucent and vague people watching forever forever a thought bubble in a lonely man's world.