So once again it comes, the end of another tour, the passing of another season in the life of a roadie. So many people have come and gone, it gets so hard to remember all the ways your heart has swayed since the last time you had a break. A break... What is it? A great man once said that we get no rest, not like normal men; that we must be pleased with the sweet wind that blows in the south of every man's heart. That wind blows across the hills, the same ones that have followed me since youth, the same low growth festooned with the dry brush and chapparral of my formative years. So seldom do I see them now that they often seem just a mere reminder of a youth since passed by, forgotten, and trampled into the dust and loam. Now and again the breeze kicks up a scant reminder, a brief scent of trails long since left for nought; a time long ago, when even the dry winds from the plane tasted so alive and full of auspice. Not so long ago do the memories taste of a mouth full of sand, charging headlong into the wind, cursing the fates for daring to put the grit between one's teeth so. Chomping at the bit we charged at a future yet unknown, lunging headstrong to a life we could not know. Now, trodden as our paths may well be, I pause to ask of my fellow travelers; how well did I know you? And how well do you know me?
Tonight I put my arm around another soul, who did not indeed recoil in fear, shock, or horror, but instead put hers around me, and proceeded to join my recount of superficial woes, as only the most truly benevolent being could. Tonight three souls embraced me and told me not to leave; but troubled as I am, could not oblige their pleas. For I love their hearts, and cherish them beyond my own, but can't imagine a world where they both know and love mine, enough to cease them to recoil from the debt and guilt laden upon none but my own.
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