Vagabond

It’s a normal day. The sun has stepped out of the shadows of the east, the breeze stands still as though the anthem of the skies has filled its ears, we hurry about in anticipation and greed. Like I said, it was a normal day.
Just like any other day.
It’s just like any other day I’ve ever had. Or will have.
But I can’t mentally place myself. Where am I?
Am I in a halted train that just ran over another reckless innocent?
Or am I snuggling under the warmth of my dual blanket; an object that has recently become a symbol of all that is home?
Or am I standing at the expanse of a vast ocean, scribbling names on sand and watching silently as the tide washes it over and over again, every time a different letter disappears first, every time the name stays a little longer, seemingly more permanent?
Am I whistling under an ageless tree, mentally escaping to an outer space of sorts?
Or screaming at a neighbour for not keeping his pets under control?
Am I sobbing to cure myself? Or curing myself so I that I don’t feel the need to sob?
Am I attending a lecture in the past of my mind?
Or am I too busy living my reality virtually?
See, that’s my only major concern: that I can’t place myself in a particular predicament and continue thereon. I can’t pick a moment of inception and let my story unfold. I’m always hopping from situation to situation, character to character, plot line to plot line, wondering who chose this life for me?
We’re not all a vagabonds by choice, you know. Just prisoners of an unstable present.

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