The Wanderer by S. Marisol
I’ve come to think the best writers are wanderers. They stroll blissfully through the mind on an unprovoked quest to find their way through a story, to the end. Each turn is a new beginning, each person a new twist, each thunderstorm a Segway to a new segment of a tale. And the vagabond who galavants through the corridors of the mind, connecting all the dots with glee and then leaving each memory behind, is a truly joyful soul.
He wanders freely. He drinks in moments and spills their dregs upon each page to chronicle the past. He is without regret, chasing no passion and no dream. Instead, walking down memory lane only to share stories. Skipping into meadows of flourishing ideas and picking each, one by one, without a care in the world. He knows they will grow back. He soaks in their scent and all of their beauty and moves on, blowing the seeds of the dandelion so that other weeds may grow. He watches them blow in the wind and politely sighs as new seeds sow themselves into new stories and bloom.
The wanderer walks right into them. His actions are thoughtless and without consequence, but his scripts are strategic. They weave together the roads on which he has traveled to get here. He has no deep disdain or desire, no great ambition or end goal. He only wants to record that which is, and has been. He only wants to wander, to ‘be.’