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The Life of a Vagabond



Looking up at the silver sphere in the black sky she said, “Its not far from here. Just a few more miles to go”.

Unlike the wind, she did bring to a still – her aching feet. It was a sporadic habit. But some others were not. She halted only when all were in unison and declared that the destination could be what she was looking for – her own. It would be far from easy, for her mind and heart had fooled her many times by making that an impulsive and misguided declaration. It would not be easy for nothing good comes without a struggle and stays without it too.

With a pole to the ground, she worked against the strong breeze trying to set up shelter. Beads of sweat trickled down her dusky forehead as she took a deep breath absorbing all that the breeze could offer. She let the scents from other lands pass by and filtered from the wind only what should now belong to her own.

Days and nights were spent in breeding a familiarity for her senses. Arousing and mesmerising them, she hoped that the veins of familiarity would root all five senses deep into the ground. She struggled to keep them from going astray. Deep enough to hold her down to what she assumed would finally be her own.

Ah! But there are tales of men who have gone down inhaling it. A whiff of the temptation would leave you too intoxicated to even differentiate between sanity and insanity. For no one can stand against the wind and fight it while it seduces you with new exotic scents waiting to be explored. Especially, not for a vagabond.

The veins loosened. The only familiarity her senses knew were that of her nature to wander. She could never deceive them with all her pretentious thoughts and feelings of stagnation and stability. Stagnation is what she truly really felt about holding similar ground every single day. She could never deceive. She knew. All it takes is one whiff to give in to the next. She moved along, mumbling to herself,

“Its not far from here. Just a few more miles to go”, she said.



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