Gypsy

What is the meaning of life? As in the definition? No, idiot, as in, “what is the purpose.”

I stand from the rock I have been sitting on all these years. My ass hurts. And my beads are forsaking thier luster. Grab the bag, I remind myself. The one where you packed away your convictions a long time ago. I set out to answer that nagging question. Thinking, believing I’ll find clues on my way. On my way to where? Oh yeah, I really do think I’ll get an answer. Jeans are dusty. The air is dry. I am sunbaked. But I feel good, I feel…free? Yeah, thats it, free to wander, free to experiment, free to absorb. And then, Life, will you answer my question? Hell no, he says, that would be too easy. You figure it out. So I step out into the road, the one with the infinite black gravel. Flip flops slapping my heels as my naiivety prods me in the back, pushing me onwards. Yeah, I really think I’ll be able to come up with the answer. I really do. I guess its hard to see the others who stand on the road when I’m staring at the gravel under my own feet, and stopping to pick out the pebbles that make thier way between my toes. I hear them though, like playing telephone, whispering thier certainties, passing it on. Who knows where it started, but they all agree. They think nothing was lost along that telephone wire. And everyone sounds so sure that whoever started it was right, and everyone is so sure it’s got something to do with God. Hope they speak of . Love. Faith. Ah, faith, the most foriegn of words! And I notice they’re all so sure, but they’re all so still. I’d rather keep moving. If that is the only answer they have, I’d really rather keep moving. Yeah, I’ll have my answer one day. I’m certain. Certainly naiive. “Keep moving, and stare at your pebbles.”