Journal of the Wayward

An entry from a rainy, spring afternoon whilst living in a dead bus in Homer, Alaska:

My companions are gnats. There’s nothing complicated about them: they offer little conversation but they don’t talk back either. On occasion, they bring their detestable biting kin along, and I’ll have none of their company. But mostly, their blurry wings are a glimmer to break the monotonous stillness of solitude in a lonely view beside the aloof wisps of incense. Outside, golden crowned sparrows sing their three notes. “Oh dear me,” they call, exasperated, while siskins erroneously pique against the wet peace. The melancholy song compliments the rhythm of the rain, falling freely and unhindered. Thus, a haven, charmed by musical backdrops, is provided in the gaping, hollow limbs of cow parsnip whose expansive leaves shake violently with each aquatic impact, drumming like distant soldiers.

Far away from the wet world and inside where I dwell, there are pebbles amongst the clutter of things I call home. Bones sit beside relics of a civilized life, some with dried sinew still latched to gossamer surfaces. Strewn throughout paint brushes and postal boxes there are hoodies and trinkets that cling to the smell of campfires. But the gnats don’t care nor do they judge. They buzz silently along to reach their secret and simple goals, indifferent to my grotesque life. And life goes on. Quietly free.



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