So I . . . did what? said what? does it matter? I’m still alive, still walking, still watching. does it mean anything if the heavy backpack digging into my back carries my past? we all have a past, we all have a story, good, bad, or damn ugly. I have scars, internally and externally, but I’m still alive. that makes me a survivor. makes me worthy of sun on my face, wind in my hair, rain on my body. makes me a person with real music thrumming through my existence.

I have nowhere to be, but I sure want to go there. Into the mysterious mountains reaching down to a thrashing sea, a place where I can hear the me that has long ago been buried . . . or so I hope. maybe it’ll be crash and burn instead, listening to a siren bellowing in the night, a full moon laughing benignly at my simple yet complicated attempts at life. if I was a wise person, I would embrace the fire, knowing it would set me free. but I am not a wise person, so I stumble, yell, bleed, laugh, cry, wonder, and, one day, die.

So I . . . did what? looked forward and backward at the same time? decided to go with the flow or battle the currents of change? I am only me. that’s all I have ever been, no one else. just me. should it be any better than that? there’s only one way to find out, and that’s to live a life with meaning. and screw those who would try to take that away.

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