Like a nomad, I travel with a shabby handkerchief folded at it's four frayed corners. Bits and bobs fill the soiled blue cloth, red patch over white.
I once carried a burning ambition in this tote...so nearly tempted combustion. But I lost it somewhere along the way...I must have walked too far into a storm. Rekindling the flame is always difficult in the rain.
After a time, my load grew heavy with responsibility...a weight like that can break your back. It took several legs of the journey for me to find a way to balance the weight...but the skill came with time.
And now, I've nothing left to carry but an array of odds and ends. A length of twine, tattered and tangled, for the loose ends in life. A cardboard arrow, to keep me on the straight and narrow. A pistol, so I can shoot the stars (or was it shoot for them?)...I see no difference these days.
I drift from place to place with my Huck Finn carry-all, hoping to discover some wonderful sort of secret. Does such a thing exist?
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