We Are Wanderers | Weaving Pages: We Are Wanderers

Sunday, 3 January 2016

We Are Wanderers

We are wanderers, I think, walking down the pavement bathed in the yellowish glow of street lamps. The air is crisp, biting at my skin and seeming to muffle my surroundings. The buildings rise high around me, but it's still five o'clock, it's still getting colder, and the glittering reflections of Christmas lights still shine in my eyes: I continue walking.

The sky has melted into an inky pool of blue, the fairy lights twined around lamp posts providing staccato burst of light that contrast against the chipped black paint that comes off against my fingers. I bury my hands in the sleeves of my jumper, rearrange my hair so it falls around my neck and brushes occasionally against my flushed cheeks. The day is ending, and I am wandering down a street in what could be the dead of night, lost in the memories of times gone by and times to come.

I don't know where I am going, and the floor is littered with cigarette butts and trampled blades of grass alike, but I am young. I am young enough to beware the shadows lingering at the bend and yet hold the stars in my eyes. It is bitter sweet, making my eyes sting as I stop in the middle of the path, searching the world around me for something I don't know. The year is ending, and so is my journey down this road, with its cobbled stones and hazy glow. My breath clouds before me, and I stand there in the middle making peace with the steps I leave behind and the ones I haven't made yet.

The world seems big, and I feel small, wandering down that winding road with Cathedral bells singing in the background. I am so lost that I do not know what will come next, but I do know that will always be the case. I will always wander down cracked pavements with my hear thudding in my chest and promises to my self falling off my lips.

The moment is fleeting, but I feel the the minutes flutter by and I reach the end of the street. I look back, wistfully admiring the soft gleam of the cobblestones, the way the lamps still create pools of light on the floor and the tiny coiled bulbs of light wink at me in the darkness. The air is raw and frigid, but it refreshes my lungs and glazes my eyes so that they flicker brighter than before. The scene is alive, so vivid it makes my breath catch. We are not wanderers, I think, because we seek castles amongst cerulean skies. We are wanderers, I realise, because it takes the end of the road for us to gaze rightly upon that which we have travelled.

rita xo

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