The Passenger

I want to walk in doors, not fall in holes. I want to experience a healer's birth. Be part of the solution rather than the problem.

I want to be an emissary, an intermediary, an explorer of uncharted truths. But I am a psychonaut lacking refinement or tact.

Pulled over at the abandoned roadside stop now overgrown with moss, because no one here relies on liquified dinosaurs to travel anyway. Trying to make head or tail of a creased and greasy faded map of the terrain. It's been handed down through generations, but it may not have ever been correct in the first place.

Not to mention the terrain is forever shifting, unfixed, reflected shadows gliding in and out of the leaves rustling in wind, or perhaps as a result of the creatures that fly and dart hidden in the canopy. A coffee stain on the map obliterates the name of the state, the nation, the capitol, but it doesn't matter. This is where I am and I will make my own way.