Travel to Nowhere (Pt. 1)

Have Poetry Will Travel

Image: Author

I cannot be considered a serious writer. Living only in the moment with neither past nor future, I am writing a travel book to nowhere.

Travel is subjective in that no two travellers will interpret a people or a landscape similarly. This is a red flag whenever an author steps outside his characters and begins writing as himself.

I’m drafting this book to show that history is nothing but a fabrication, and nothing is true — except for love in one’s heart. It won’t be a long book; its meaning will strengthen by unifying a seemingly jumbled set of stories.

I could better judge how far I’ve travelled if there had been a beginning.

There wasn’t.

Along the way, certain noises, such as snoring, slow and muffled, were heard rising amid ruins. There were meals, a collation of eggs and beans, short meals, enough to carry me off. A fat cat was sleeping in a heap of old boots, shoes and socks. The sky through the highest panes of the windows called out to me.

So, I went.

I know that out there, I abandoned myself to fields of tenderness.

I followed him.

Note To Medium: After the crap you have dished on a lot of us, I’ve reduced my tag list to…