Part of the pod
I don’t deny that all I do is pick up my roots and tread onward. It saddens me, sometimes, when I want to stay put and choose not to. It is an overestimation of my effect on people. A shedding of their effect on me.
It matters where I tread toward, of course. And who I tread with. These others whose roots are also capable of survival outside the soil are unknown to me. The most I get are fellow walkers in the night.
Everyone returns home.
My distances are getting better. A 13:47 mile. I’ve not heard of anyone who has walked around the world. There’s the problem of these gaps between continents, you understand. There are solutions to every worldly problem except death.
Urges of the past year:
Russia (Teased and unfulfilled. This trip has become a matter of principle.)
Iceland (I feel an affinity toward the Scandinavians and their myths.)
Argentina (Las pampas, el hielo, y Pilar.)
The long walk (Initially south-to-north, now west-to-east.)
Mexico (To see a grandfather now dead.)
New Zealand (A long drive around an island. Quite simple.)
Canada (Winter with the experts.)
(Source: thechibbsjermaine)