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The nomad is always searching for her home. Where she lost it, she’ll never know. She walks on, her feet aching, looking and searching. Miles and miles. Minutes and hours. Days. She walks on. She’s looking for home.
She wants to feel that warmth, wants to warm her face. There are none but clouds overhead. The rain falls steadily from time to time and she walks on. Other times there is heat. Not warmth, but heat, and she feels she may be home. But the hear is not warmth. There is heat, but it is fleeting and in its wake is cold. - frigid cold that she claws through, sliding on the ice and nearly losing her footing. Still, she walks on.
She walks alone. She sees others, seeking home. She hears them,, feels them and yet their paths are never one for long. She envies those who found home in the night, when the cold grips her after a heat spell and her feet are numb and she wants to give up. But still, she walks on.
She watches as she walks. She watches others find their homes. Watches others fall to the heat and cold. She tries to feel for them – their joy, their sorrow. But all she can feel is that she must walk. She can’t take the time to stop and aid them, lest her home get further and further from her reach.
Some days she knows the way. Some days her feet bounce and she feels light and free and that she could walk on mile after mile forever. Being a nomad isn’t so bad. Then other days she digs her heels into the earth. Another step would be agony and she wants to curl into herself and rest right there, to end her searching, unfulfilled. Most days, she walks on, steady. One step, then another, oh, so slowly. For the earth is uneven, and wants her to fall.
The nomad walks on.
Current Location: a dark place
Current Mood: 
depressed
depressedLeave a comment
