Dylan always thought that Two Roads Diverged or whatever was a stupid poem.
When they were a kid, it haunted them into the night, made their bedsheets feel itchy and constraining. It didn't make sense. Why take the road less travelled when you could just take both? Why?
They wanted to sleep in motels, hotels, apartments, to watch the sunrise in a different city every morning and see the beauty of a sunset from every angle possible. They wanted to take pictures of new places. They wanted to feel different kinds of wind. They just wanted to go.
They were always abandoned, left alone with that stupid poem ringing loudly in their head, and for once they wanted to know how the world would feel when they abandoned it. And so they did.
And though they often haven't a clue what road is best, they repeated again and again that it didn't matter. They would touch every tree, watch every bird and falling leaf, smell every candle or perfume, read every poem and road sign.
They could see the years stretch before them like a cheap ornate rug in a sordid tacky motel, and they kept going as if they might find a small piece of their soul just sitting by the side of the road.
They tried to stop a few times, in coastal towns they grew fond of and big cities, but they were too used to one place after another that those place they tried to make home slowly became nothing more than abandoned, ruined sites with an unwanted history
Put it back, something told them, whenever they found that perfect place- somewhere they wanted to hold onto, put it back and keep walking.
Maybe it was pieces of their soul they were leaving, finding and leaving. They only had so much.
That was their problem. They want to be driving in a car with the wind flowing through their veins but they also wanted to be able to stop to photograph a rickety bridge. They're afraid of not being able to capture every little detail. They thrive and thrive and thrive and they have to keep going. They have to put the pencil to the paper and the lens to the wood.
They went from being a traveller to being homeless, unable to find their way back. The things they lost in the ocean washed up on shores but they didn't know which ones, and they had no one to help them look. Cities were too cold and unmoving, but forests were too alive and warm. Oceans smelled bitter and sand burned too hot. No longer was the world small and easily explorable, but too vast. There were too many roads, too many versions. There were too many roads, no one path.
They thought about that stupid poem and refused to wonder if they had taken the wrong road until they learned to watch the sun quietly setting alone with their shadow and their pain and pretend it was everything they'd ever wanted.
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Those Who Walk Alone At Night
PoetryThose who walk alone at night (the sleepless, the sad, the bad, the mad. The lost, the lonely. The homeless.) all remember when they came together, weary of words and people, reeking of heaven or hell at midnight, and all wondering; with what nothin...