vagabonding blogging

so without a voice, as it is lost to overuse or anger or a tightened throat from unbearable stress to the body
and without an extension of this natural life into the life of others so far, or maybe just across town, as the obsession with plugging and charging and attaching electronics to your pant pockets is forgotten
and without the companion that calls you to check in every day, or to give you a hug every morning, or make you tuna fish for lunch
and without a home where others know your face on a passing by of the street, and smile into your solitude feeding your for hours
and without knowing your own face, or your own hands, or your own loveliness.

to exist in this world, substantiated by these expectations, of what a day is filled with. In the vagabonding there are strangers who tell you who they think you are, and there are alone moments were memories seep in from a past life, a song comes on, and you are in your first apartment, lying on the floor, with someone you know loves you, for a moment.