No. 194 - Spiraling

I’ve dreamed of leaving Atlanta for the Rockies for as long as I can remember.
Of making a home in a small town with a ski lift and a local newspaper,
where the peaks are snow-capped,
where the rivers run wide,
where the plains are the color of honey.

I’ve dreamed of leaving Atlanta for the Golden Isles of Georgia.
Of making a home where time moves with the tides,
where moss hangs like lace from the oaks,
where the beach is a bicycle ride away.

I’ve dreamed of leaving Atlanta for Manhattan.
Of living in Greenwich Village, where my idols wrote their songs and read their poetry,
where rhyme and reason feel centuries old.

I’ve dreamed of being the father I couldn’t be.
I’ve dreamed of tucking my kids into bed,
of cooking pancakes on Saturday mornings.
But I’ve lived like a drifter who can’t sit still—
a gypsy who roams.
My life has never made sense, not even to me.

I find solace when I’m alone—
on roads that disappear into the horizon,
in tents and motels,
in hammocks in the desert,
in books and poetry.
Always alone,
but there I can think,
and breathe.

In another life, I would’ve been an explorer on a ship,
a pioneer on a horse—
or lost in an opium den in the Orient—
anything but trapped in this awful century.