Calling ...

I'm unwritten, I’m undefined. I have no right of passage and I have no looking back. The pen in my hand and book in my lap, it’s only an outpouring and a want to do what I desire. To let the sun illuminate my life, to let the moon enlighten my path and to let the stars be my guide.

It’s the call of the sea, of the waves and the oceans, of the long winged albatross which flies across the seas to finish what it started and that’s its own journey. You set the objects in motion, make the rain drench my clothes and the wind chill my bones.

To drown in words unspoken, rise with the notion of hope to find it right beside you. Now is where the book begins, the rest is unwritten. What follows and what trails is all a part of folklore but it doesn’t matter. To see change and then see change again is what I’m talking about.

It’s what’s not said and not done which runs what’s being said and done. And so I’m lost in an enchanted forest, where every path is correct and each one leads to its own glories. I only have to choose mine. So I choose freedom, freedom from all things nice and new. I take refuge, refuge in the conventional, refuge in the old days of honor.

I choose freedom from having to care or decide. I hear the call of the ocean and the albatross again and that’s where I head, out into a brand new convention world.