I feel like a vagrant and I’m starting to look like one too. I always prided myself on being an attractive traveler, but it appears I’ll have to start letting go of this too. My mane of hair is growing wild and this strange Albertan climate is making it crazy. These cold, hard mountains that frighten me so much, their winds pull at me and my hair is electric listening to their call.
My last day in the prairies a flock of sea birds were circling my car where I sat listening to music, missing the mountains and writing:
The yogis are still crying. It’s something they do well aside from stretching. I’m not sure I’m a yogi anymore, though I still want to be upside down, especially on grass where I can watch insects doing their creepy little thing. It’s trippy, man. There’s so much life out there, little forms of life and instead we’re crushing on men who aren’t good for us and wishing we were better people. There are higher beings chilling in the grass. I don’t know. Stop stressing and keep a move on.
And I’m ready to keep moving. I want to drive these lonely roads through the desolate towns and back into the hills. I’m going to my family, but not before stepping into trees and water and listening to music from morning until night. Not before I weep for my lost loves and the people I’ve grown to love and the hardness in me still that desires nothing from those who have so much to offer.
How astonishing that we are all so alone and yet so desirous to be one with all. For a long time I’ve carried the bodies of dead dreams and lost loves and failures and yet I cross paths with people still willing to love me. And there are people here who do not want to know my name or my face or give me a second thought. How incredibly heartbreaking that nothing lasts.
My last day in the prairies I imagined those sea birds flying above my car must feel very lost too. I thought all animals away from the mountains must feel very lonely and out of place and I daydreamed of finding the cougar that had killed a sheep that day and bringing it to some high crag in the Rockies. A rightful throne. I smiled to myself, imagining how it would rip up my leather seats and make it hard to chill for the long drive...
It isn’t silly to be inspired by the animals. They've always struck me as magical beings, visions of our higher selves and if we stop talking to them, the natives warn, they will stop talking to us.
Listen here -- In the Dirt by Sean Carey
My last day in the prairies a flock of sea birds were circling my car where I sat listening to music, missing the mountains and writing:
The yogis are still crying. It’s something they do well aside from stretching. I’m not sure I’m a yogi anymore, though I still want to be upside down, especially on grass where I can watch insects doing their creepy little thing. It’s trippy, man. There’s so much life out there, little forms of life and instead we’re crushing on men who aren’t good for us and wishing we were better people. There are higher beings chilling in the grass. I don’t know. Stop stressing and keep a move on.
And I’m ready to keep moving. I want to drive these lonely roads through the desolate towns and back into the hills. I’m going to my family, but not before stepping into trees and water and listening to music from morning until night. Not before I weep for my lost loves and the people I’ve grown to love and the hardness in me still that desires nothing from those who have so much to offer.
How astonishing that we are all so alone and yet so desirous to be one with all. For a long time I’ve carried the bodies of dead dreams and lost loves and failures and yet I cross paths with people still willing to love me. And there are people here who do not want to know my name or my face or give me a second thought. How incredibly heartbreaking that nothing lasts.
My last day in the prairies I imagined those sea birds flying above my car must feel very lost too. I thought all animals away from the mountains must feel very lonely and out of place and I daydreamed of finding the cougar that had killed a sheep that day and bringing it to some high crag in the Rockies. A rightful throne. I smiled to myself, imagining how it would rip up my leather seats and make it hard to chill for the long drive...
It isn’t silly to be inspired by the animals. They've always struck me as magical beings, visions of our higher selves and if we stop talking to them, the natives warn, they will stop talking to us.
Listen here -- In the Dirt by Sean Carey
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