Untamed, I bleed under wild November sun. Cactii kissing unkempt feet. Feet spluttering up buckets of dust into tanned eyes. Eyes watering in prayer to feed parched mouth. And mouth exhaling desperate droplets of saliva. All to be in the Thar.
For such is vagabonding. Such, the seduction of our planet.
So, unearth that dusty atlas from the closet. Now. And move away. From this delicious comfort of attachment. To places of heart-ache, pain, reminiscence ... and then to places of realization, happiness and salvation.
For such is vagabonding. Meditation in motion. A fearlessness to meet the world as it is. Sometimes stark, sometimes delirious.
But I am not fearless. Attached to the world as I am, my atlas lies buried in a place unknown. The planet seduces but not enough. And I am just another human in the machinery of the world as we know.
Until another time, meet the vagabond in my mind.
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