He spoke of being a vagabond in past tense, through the
distortions of my memory. His eyes were calm, though I romanticized them to be
wild. The best night we had was when he took control. I would stay up watching
him breathe, and all I could do to save myself was to walk the suburb on the
phone. I wrote poetry and dreamed in words that weren’t solely mine. I wanted
everything in front of me, my vain heart reaching out to call something mine.
I knew then as I know now that I am not done. This vagabond
lifestyle still fills me with hope. I have far too much to see and to many existences
to relate with. I pack up my backpack with the knowledge only experience can
give.
Months of calling myself a vagabond has filled me with joy
when I hear others say the word. Each song I hear with the word fills me with
joy. Rod Stewart singing Forever Young has played on the radio twice in the
last week. Maybe I’m a romantic, but it feels like he’s singing to me. Bob Dylan
tells me to Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright. Dave Loggins sings along with my
soul as he talks to his love, a woman who wants a much different life than he,
but he still asks her “Please, come to Boston”.
Jess tattooed my knuckles this summer with the handle I have
given myself. It’s on my stamp, it’s the name I use for domain, and now it’s on
my hands forever. I regret nothing. My four top left knuckles spell a name that
I have taken over my given name. My chosen name is Elon, a name that happened upon
me, but I feel suits the current person I have become.
So here I travel yet again, for however long I made need to
keep moving. Tonight, Portland, tomorrow, Eugene. After that? Only time will
tell.
Travel on.
