“They’re all in a dream world,” he says. I feel my chest tightening. I can’t breathe.
All I want to do is to play some good music, drink lime-scented water, and drive. Drive far, far away.
That isn’t so much to ask, you think. I know. I know this too well.
But when someone else tries to dictate your life, tries to play with sticks & stones, & birds & cats, all you need is to hire a lion tamer, bring in a few characters from Big Fish, & travel the world with your mind.
Many people I’ve known have been to many places. I know I haven’t, but I will.
My room, after all, is a gypsy room. Filled with suitcases, travel-worthy books, owls & a few scarves when it gets too, too cold. Mostly 2nd-hand junk, which I live on. I live on you, I live on me. It’s great.
And I will travel.
And when I do, I’ll bring my broken wings along with me.
To remind me that, life is sweet, whether your grass is green, blue, sepia, or multi-coloured.
By then I hope to have my own lomo camera & a great big sketch book to scratch all my lovelies.
As an end note, here’s to Bukowski & to traveling:
the free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it -basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them.