About the leaving
By Parson Thru
It’s all about the leaving. That’s what counts. That’s what gets me. Leaving it all behind. Striking out – hitting the road. Leaving the world behind the windows. Don’t look in. Complication. Bullshit. Leaving it all. Everyone. I love it. The space, the peace and the quiet. The slight risk I’ll never get to where I’m going. Sweet uncertainty. Yes! Out there. Me and the road. Me and the tracks. Me and the sky. I don’t care, just let me out. It’s not the destination – it’s being on the move. Everything else is bogus. No one really cares. Pedalling bullshit – whatever works. The best relationships don’t really matter. The smile, the nod. They’ll lie to their boss or cheat on their wife, but out in that wide-open space, pulling a case from a carousel, flashing me in or holding a door I get the best of them. For God’s sake don’t invite me in or offer me a job. Keep moving, give me a wave and go on your way and I’ll go on mine. Leave me with only the sky. That’s all I need. And maybe a tune to keep me afloat. When I’m tired, I’ll take a stop. Maybe a word leant on a bar, but that’s as far as I’m willing to go. When I get up, leave me alone. Don’t ask for my number. Just watch me leave or, better still, turn away and talk to somebody else. Because I need to be free. That’s all I want. An open road and a bed for the night. Don’t ask me where I’m going or where I’m from. Don’t ask me what I left behind. It doesn’t matter. Pay it no mind. I’m out on my own. Best company I’ll ever find. Always stand myself a drink. Talk to myself from time to time. Never argued yet. Best sleep I ever had was on my own. It’s not that I’m anti-social you understand. Just like my own company. Mountain man, I suppose, kind of. Wide open spaces. Sign-post to the North, the South, the East, the West. The Interstate. A bus ticket or a full tank of gas and I’m ready to go. Just roll me down that road.