Sitting in the back of a small run down coffee shop in a small town, sipping a small cup, waiting while the small car is remedied from a small repair issue, and listening to corny modern twists on old xmas songs. But big thoughts.
He wonders what it would be like to write from a different shop each morning, from a different town, and from a different country. Moving. Writing. Caring. The tether between new horizons of engagement, interaction, and self reliance remains taut with the lure of comfort, predictability, and the cost of maintaining it. A tug that some, but not all, feel.
Of course, when you are born with this wandering affliction, you know that somewhere is nowhere, and nowhere is just a mindset anyway. As much as he understands that the fence is just a fence, and both sides grow grass, the question remains as to how that grass will smell in the morning dew as he rolls out of his bag of slumber to start another day.
Knowing that one cathedral is the same as the next, and humans around the world are more or less the same, and that a man could travel more and learn more by working his Google than by walking and sleeping on foreign grounds. It is the spirit with which he engages the world from the day to day planning, that is required of the vagabond, that provides the spark. Everything else is just passing time waiting for cessation.
Our spirit is so vulnerable to hijack.
Of course it begins to change the moment he starts to plan. He almost immediately begins to see things different, taking note of people once again with eyes that see more deeply into the heart and soul, wanting to convey the joy of living.
The joy of living……hmmmm.
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