There are those who live by the map. And drive by it. Those who are humble. And uncertain. Some with the half-life of an elephant's memory. Some who choose to live there. For some, every milestone is a trigger. An echo their sound bird, their word carrier across chasms. Of space and time. To some, this life holds no enticement. To some, the only fear of loss, is death. Some wait for forests to move. Some toil in silhouettes to cave out barks of trees to make them. There are also those whose lives are as fickle to chance as the paths they take. Random. With no design. Then there are those who want nothing. They simply exist in flame or ash. Like air.
Penned June 22, 2011.
