We wander. We go places. Trains and cars and boats and bikes and buses and everything is about being somewhere other than here.
I am not made for here. I am made for there, or there, or that place over the hill, or across that ocean, in that country that I bet you can’t find on the map.
Take me there. Take me places where I don’t know how to shape my mouth around the words that people say to me, where I am a stranger and an alien and a newcomer. Where I am just a ticket and a suitcase.
Change. Winds of it, the smell of it, the taste of it, the feel of it, on skin, in minds, through your hair like the fingers of a friend you don’t yet know.
Everything is out there, across field and city and through winding streets and open, dusty highways and old cracked pavements.
Wander through it all.
Don’t walk. Don’t run or skip or drive or put your head down and try to get through.
Take the time to see. To hear. Listen in on a conversation. Let it come to you. Let the city tell you a story, let the field whisper a secret, the forest sing you to sleep, the ocean to keep you company on a cloud covered night.
(Originally submitted for assessment at Bangor University, School of Creative Writing, under the name Rebecca Rayner, but now extended and posted for personal entertainment.)