I can not remember when I was not tempted by the warm, apple-pie feeling that home was just around the corner. That those lovely words and music I just can't quite make out are almost within earshot. That the homeless man and the beggarly woman are only my children grown up before I got to them.
Dreading the limelight, I find myself on street corners carrying candles in the dark, writing poetry in the moonlight, carrying signs for those who cannot carry their own.
Afraid of snakes and dogs and bears and a million other things that you would not even blink at, I find myself on adventures I cannot turn down, in situations others only dream of.
Loving people so much that sometimes it hurts, I am truly a loner who needs long hours without the company of others, or I cannot actualize the real me.
You think that I am a wanderer, that I am lost in a world where everyone else has found someone and settled down into connubial bliss beside a fire with two dogs and a cat, but I am not. I have a map and at every corner I get it out and consult it. Trying to decide whether to go right or left, up or down, and generally discovering that I must go inward.
My way is different than yours, but it seems to be the only one for me.
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