Westward, Toward the Light
There was magic borne on the wind that carried my assorted and disassembled dreams westward. Go West, young man, go west! was the mantra that kept playing softly on my harp of hope, onward to dispel the cravings of a life so unspent, so emotionally charged, to find a place of peace and refuge.
The hay straw still showed behind each ear as the journey took my meager belongings toward the unknowable, the fancy of a young man’s flight. The salt air of an ocean reached and settled sweetly in a naïve mind, its aroma a quiet compelling elixir of jangled thoughts filled with youthful wonder, wild imaginings, and a nervous sense of doubt and fear from an inconsistent past.
So began my adventure into the world where youth gave way to the neon lights, adventures built from beach sand and romance, with but a glimmer, always, but a glimmer to a dream that might come true. Aided by Bacchus’ soothing near-miraculous stirring of spirit, my reach, my grasp, were temporary, daring me to the very edge of some total climactic and thunderous denouement.
And, so it was for a lifetime, this chase, this forever search for some reasonable continuity of existence and purpose. Along with the virginal beginning and the tempest days of debauchery, there came the muse who perchance reached into a soiled soul of enraptured, uncaptured, carousel of desires and bade me be a scribe to all I see, sense, and embrace.
Thus, here I be with the only gauge of my existence, my mind free to roam all expanses, sullied only by its depth and cognition. How much of me is obsequious, imaginary, existent, is not for me to say. ‘Why can you not say’? One could ask. Because I do not know would be my answer.
No long white beard announcing Socratic wonders, still, here in the bosom of old age, I wander down the paths of my mind, still, emotionally, searching, plotting courses uncharted in this, my minimal odyssey.
BR Chitwood – May 6, 2019
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