“Without new experiences, something inside of us sleeps. The sleeper must awaken.” – Frank Herbert
There are no yesterdays on the road. Nobody who knows who you are, what you have done, where you come from. Nobody who knows your shame and your triumph. Nobody who has seen you laugh, cry or dream. It is almost as if you could cease to exist. You eat, sleep, observe, talk, and think; but most of all you move and keep moving. While moving you exist. For only when all is calm are you extinguished. For some unfathomable reason I can't stop pulling myself from the nothingness to which I aspire. Like all dreamers I fell asleep and my lips the angry Mab with blisters plagued as I lay dreaming of love. Then later, when dreaming of hate, I came to see both as coincident forms of passion. With my passion I am alive. With my passion the old horizons are sponged away and something new is coming into being. A million tiny metamorphoses have combined within me, paving a way for the forthcoming tempestuous uprising. The sleeper must awaken and my story must begin . . . . . .
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(With apologies to Jean Paul Sartre and Shakespeare for tugging at their ankles)
