Season

When at last a quiet night comes, you do not know how to receive it. Pace anxiously around the kitchen, looking for countertops that need wiping down. Take one more look at your finished to do-list. Stress sits like a nervous rodent in one's chest, only calm when furiously at work, forever trembling in the calm. It takes you over an hour to settle. Make a drink, the kind with bourbon that you like so much. Turn down the lights, turn on the fire. Absorb the minutes, they are not infinite. A week from now, you'll be on your way again, and you don't know when you'll be back here. What a strange life, what a wondrous life. 

The thing is, you said you wanted freedom, and then you got it. You said you wanted the road, and then you followed it. You said you wanted country, and fresh air, and one foot in each realm, and the city as home, and the mountains at sunrise, you said you wanted all these things and now here they are, there are not words for the feeling in your chest when you remember it. 

The path may be lonely, yes, it may be dotted with sorrowful flowers of opportunities lost or lovers squandered, may be reminders of the boxes you did not tick inside the white picket fence, but oh, when you sit by that fire, writing stories into existence, speaking wonder into the Universe, are you not far richer than any bank account you neglected? 

You forget sometimes, that is your flaw as human, but there is always the chance to be reminded again. You are not, without the word, and now you are not without the word. 

And so your existence is, at this moment, complete.