Where does your journey begin? Before you find yourself along a starry road walking undeterred as to why and unsure when as the lights drift by and the wind pushes at times against your face and in other moments against your side running cold, as the sound of friends drifts into the dark and you consider maybe taking another sip.
You could say this part of my life and then again maybe you can’t say it because saying it would put a finer defined point on it and who really cares for defined points, but you could say this was and has been my time on the road, even as I stoop to pick a toddler’s toy off the ground and return it to her awed smile.
And the faces of my children grow bigger and more aware.
While I find myself in the middle, the middle of everything, the moments past and the friends undiscovered and the loved ones not yet lost and I contemplate the surge of anxiety and eagerness ready to burn like a thousand yellow roman candles and hope that what I put down is held up, and that my children grow to be mad, mad for life mad for love, mad for the next breath, the one that overtakes your lungs when you clamp down with joy of the vision of the thing next to come.
And we all still have a next thing to come, at least for a moment, and we all burn burn burn.
So we grab our thoughts and our shoes and our faith and our resolve and sometimes our last chance and we point the car west or maybe just down the street, but we move and live and remember that each of us is on a journey that can only be ours, alone, even with the hands of the devoted grazing our palms.
We all die, some at 47, some far too soon and some far too late, and those that have come and gone can only whisper in the dark along the road as the voices of our joking drunk mates slide into the ether and you hear the deeper voices tell you… GO.
Happy Birthday Jack Kerouac