Just Like Me, My Words Don’t Rhyme

10 Jul

There is no greater remorse than that of rushing life, of achieving everything way too soon.

There is no happiness in crossing your destination, only that in getting there.

This soul is that of a vagabond – it strays, it has no home, it moves along wherever the road may lead, it is not meant to belong.

This heart is that of a vagabond – it has no desire for intimacy for completion, it is free from bonds, it has too many passions to be dedicated to one thing.

This mind is that of a vagabond – it wants to be everywhere, it wants to know something of everything, it does not think of you so much.

This life is that of a vagabond – it stops to smell the roses, it enjoys the beauty that surrounds its stroll, it is never meant to be stuck in one boring dream.

There is no lack of knowledge of self – the self knows who it is. And who it is, remains undefined by what it achieves in the eyes of others.

This is what will make me feel complete when my final destination approaches. This is the real joy right now.

These thoughts are that of a vagabond – one that bleeds to be left alone.


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