The nomad’s life is a mixed bag, where the highs are high and the lows are low. Each nomad looking for their own something, their own homes. A home that doesn’t physically exist though it’s something they yearn for. The home is nowhere near, it’s also nowhere far, and still that doesn’t stop the nomad’s journey of searching for it.
Each journey begins the same way.. with deep disappointment. One that can’t often be described, let along justified. Depression-like and fever-ish, it consumes the nomad. Their disgust grows, their sadness does too, but most of all its their disappointment that envelopes them into a hug that soon turns suffocating. It squeezes so tight that you begin to pool out from its fingers when it was once the other way around. Sand in a tight grip. It’s everywhere now. In the people they see, in the conversations they have.
They have to go. They’ve seen all that they don’t like and don’t want and won’t put up with. They have to go. They’re being consumed. They have to go. They don’t care for a plan, they simply have to go.
So they go.
They wander, they search, they seek. The nomad wonders if the flower-blooming bushes on the coastline suits the setting of their fantastical home. Will it be the fishermen who make them feel like they have family. Will the streets without sidewalks change how they walk and what direction they’re headed. Will the cloudless skies give them a wider view to the sunset each night, the one that heals and reminds the nomad that home isn’t in where you are but home is within you. Will it, they wonder as they wander, they search, they seek.
The nomad lands. Perhaps it will.
The nomad’s shoulders drop a little, so does their jaw. The corner of their eyes are being led by the smiles on their face. They begin to settle from a deeper part of themselves. They begin to talk again, to walk again, to remember again. The nomad is reignited. They see a path and they’re ready to follow it. The way the sun shines on it allows for the nomad think the home lies ahead. So the nomad takes on a journey within his journey.
The calm follows.
The nomad remembers this calm. The energized feeling it left in their mind. They relish in it, they soak every bit of it that they could, they begin to live and to create again. It feels like it’ll never end. Perhaps this time they got it right. They walk in it, they dance in it, they dream in it.
From far away they notice the skies the shifting.
Their mind plays tricks, it mocks, it mimics. The fear of having to feel the deep emptiness that once swallowed the nomad whole is walking to the nomad’s door. Before the clouds move closer, the nomad has already stumbled from constantly looking up while trying to walk forward. The nomad wonders what they’ll take on the next journey. The nomad realizes everything except that they’ve already given up.
Their home doesn’t have room for brimming clouds. Their home doesn’t have room. Their home doesn’t. Their home isn’t. Their home. They’re home. They’re no longer home as they look up now surrounded by physical gloom above them.
As it rains in their minds, it pours around them. They’re engulfed in flames that can’t be put out. The nomad cries harder than the clouds do as they grab the little they’ve kept over their time. They will not stay, this is not home. They have to go. They have to go before they’re strangled by the disappointment. They have to go. They must go.
They go.
The nomad chases what’s beyond the brooding gray balls of disguised ocean water. There’s a peak of white blended with orange and pink and blue hues. There is more beyond what’s above and will soon surround them. The nomad knows it, they feel it, they want it, they search for it, they seek it. They will get ahead of it. This time they’ll find it before the clouds find them.
They go.
The nomad looks ahead, the nomad walks along, the nomad tries again. In search for home in their mixed bag life. This next journey will be the one. This next one will be it.
Until the next one comes.