Drifter
Walking away, leaving behind;
Leaving everything behind. Floating.
One who carries a purpose hard to understand
And even harder to seize, to attain.
So the drifter leaves once more,
Empty-handed, with no seeds planted.
Constantly out of place wherever they may go,
In constant questioning and crisis. The drifter says:
“I am the wind, swaying and flowing and empty;
I overwhelm myself with the chaos I create.
Under the breeziness of my exterior,
My soul is as intense as it is volatile.”
“My spirit wishes to be something,
But in the meantime, I remain nothing
And I leave no trace of my existence:
Such is the ease of free-spiritedness.”
“The wish (and perhaps envy) of a weightless being:
To plant its roots—to build itself into something
Someday, not to remain in the in-between forever.
But in the meantime, I continue to drift.”
This story is part of a collection of poems, short stories and introspective diary entries, called “Grimoire of a Weird Person II”.