He went the world over with words in tow. For the only two things he could truly rely on were these immovable truths: the places he visited and the books he read. Cities and authors as companions for a probing wanderer. A solitary life, yet these were to be the only certainties. Sources of comfort in an endless unknown. This place will always exist, these books will live on. Not to be forsaken or forlorn these founts were ones of inspiration, of hope. Covering the past and the present, he was left with the final point of the triangle.

To use the learnings of the past, from his most trusted sources. A younger sibling to these learned nomads, he could step over the stones that caused them to stumble. And amongst a world of empty faces he has the power in his hands to transcend time and connect spiritually with another. He, traversing the globe seemingly, painstakingly, unable to speak the local language, only to hear a familiar sound through the crowd. Tis the native tongue of a tribe slowly diminished. These, a people constantly in search of something. Poets, attempting to share their study of the world, only to find their subjects with back turned to the realizations on the horizon. These are not shepherds looking to preach or to save. These are wayfarers on the path to discovery. Barefoot as to connect with the soul of existence. Happy to share their story around the warmth of a fireplace, but just as content to stare up at the stars, longingly.

It’s getting a bit cold out. But maybe just one more chapter before bed.