I have not spread my roots in this beautiful world. I have not built a house that shall grow old with me. The dust on my face speaks of roads I have traveled. My young heart is beating in a creaking body.
I am alone, but who is not alone sometime? Who is truly never alone in this wide world?
Though I’m older:
I am but an empty vessel yet to be filled. I am the potter’s wet clay that has not been shaped. I am a dream, still unrealized, but not broken. I am a traveler seeking my own destiny.