Drinking from the bottle

Why must I, am I that lost?

Does my lack of a plan, mean a lack of focus?

Who decides my fate? Some obscure god?

I think not.

If my life were a ship, am I headed for the rocks?

Smashing headlong into some catastrophe of my making.

I would rather my life not be so mundane as to have some plan.

Some orderly, 401k style life of servitude devised by thieves and masters.

No thank you.

Where the wind blows I will someday follow. My feet stepping where I most desire.

Free of any plan, of any destination, anchored only by my willingness to linger there for awhile.

My home is easily moved, it lives within me. It is not of brick and mortar, more likely it is a patchwork of lives, lives that have touched mine. Lives that are the wind that guide me.

Those lives are more home to me than any one place, they are more solid a foundation that support me than any stone could ever hope to be.

I have no time for cups, my life flows straight from the bottle. And I drink of it fully.