As hitchhikers dwindle.

Deadlocked to his location for it had once bore him fruit, awaiting a new season for a tree that’s picked of all its apples, hardly a truth seeker, the dream chaser toiled.

As the hardest working man in no business — the tragedy of his present aura — drawn to a carousel of transient horses, repleting his tree faithfully with what little substance squirted from his pounding heart, he carved his name into its bough with, for the rest of the orchard, blinders on his face.

As we are the roads we walk on, merely perception is the destination. Though for some a sandwich or a bottle of schnapps or even a cigarette might suffice as this, when panhandlers heed to the ethos of the affluent traveler, as hitchhikers dwindle the road is wise and unforgiving to those who merely wander.

Though even the conscience of a self-made pedestrian who identifies as earning every scrap of his impression exudes this chapter in lore: the myth of the journey and what it’s about: platitudes to help us cope with where we are, dust clouds beneath his torso would not propel him, running in place like he were scooby doo.

Because sometimes shit goes south and there ain’t nothing you can do about it. Even when you’re rich and comfy. Or when you’re toothless and yet you smile. Either or scenario. Shit may happen to any and to all. Be it savage drug withdrawal, (albeit hard earned,) or the privilege of select pangs afforded by luxury, such as the associated emotional pain of obesity, when the heart hurts it hurts.

Burning calories yes but counting his ribs more often, the daily grind for him was a coke habit heading sour. And so to all compassion is like a goodie bag and, a modest goodie bag at that whether it’s a quarter, a meal, a compliment of necessity or a simple pat on the back. Common compassion is a courtesy to your fellow man, typically practiced everywhere.

Stuffing his face with tree bark, deciduous leaves, caterpillars, spiders, ants and tree sap — he, not nearly as nutty as his world was made dogged — chatting with groundhogs and howling at the sun — crying to the moon — terrified of owls and all creatures of the night that kept him awake he learned that without a cart, without a path, and with only faith to guide him, nothing stops.


Flagofthetalliban - Copy (5) - Copyu (2) copy

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