Photo Credit – Google

For some time I will tarry by your side. Together will sit in the sand, cross-legged on the breezy beach in our long white robes, sharing the warmth of a crackling fire and gazing into the dancing flames, our gentle conversation occasionally interrupted by bouts of raucous laughter and outlandish back slapping under the waving fronds of fruit-laden Coconut trees.

We will live this night as if tomorrow is an unborn dream, staying up until the stars make their appearance overhead, listening to the repeated booms of breaking waves, sipping intermittently from large ceramic mugs of hot, mint flavored tea, snug in our pretense of a forever after, until the itch manifests again with the rising sun, and I have to continue alone on my wandering ways, whilst your heartbroken self is left behind.

Wipe your mind clean of guilt or worry my dear. That I have to go on thus is not due to any fault of yours, and is in no way an indictment of the quality or abundance of your hospitality, no. Pilgrims are rolling stones who live as if it all ends today because they know that come dawn, the road will utter its call again, and their feet would not in any way be fit or willing to resist the lure of travel and adventure. The earth is their treadmill, and the sky is a psychedelic roof. They are born to roam, in pursuit of light and whistling wind, seeking that which is not missing and rootless to the end.

It is their curse, and I am one.

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