She wanders through life in search of a place she may never find.
The longing ache in her heart moves her feet steadily forward in the direction she hopes leads her home.
The impression of home is rooted deep within her memory, so deep it feels like a dream in the moments when she becomes weary.
Yet she knows it is more than a conjured fantasy or delusion, for she has been there before, albeit she cannot recall the time.
Seldomly does she get lost, but even she can admit as she has passed through towns that she has overstayed to her own soul's detriment and even picked up companions that have delayed her on her way.
Even so, she always sets back on her journey and leaves those behind whom she knows know not of her home; yes, so far, she has journeyed alone.
One may ask, how does she know her chosen path will guide her home?
Well, the answer is simple.
There is a distinct scent she cannot describe but only feel that flutters under her nose when her feet are on the right path.
Likewise, there is a distinct warmth not of the sun or companionship.
But ultimately, there are flickering memories that seem altogether to beckon, this way-this way.
Strange, one might say, but I assure you outward opinions and jeering fail to deter her as she makes her way.
For they know not of the crisp scent or the warmth; neither have they shared in the memories nor even possess those of their own. Thus, how could they possibly understand the concept of home? All this is a reassuring reminder as she journeys on.
~ The End
About the Creator
Anne R.
Life is a fable.
For live readings that breathe life into the page, or to discuss bringing a book into bloom through publication or partnership, I welcome inquiries at [email protected].
Comments (1)
"Likewise, there is a distinct warmth not of the sun or companionship. But ultimately, there are flickering memories that seem altogether to beckon, this way-this way." It is very true.