I carry my books with me everywhere I go, I leave, I return, I follow where the road takes me. I ignore the signs. I write my own directions. I advance on my journey. I decide to stay awhile. I can’t wait to leave. I run away. I travel to the ocean. I hunt for a place to hide. I climb the mountain for a better view. I speak to no one. I stutter with a stranger until I turn them into a friend. I speed past my enemy so he can’t carry me away. I don’t allow her to accept my rejection. I unpack my suitcase filled with dirty clothes. I pack it with my clean things. I find space inside my bag for sweet candy. I guard my letter of introduction into that club for talented females. I pick up a child or two along the way. I hike beside a funny angel who makes me giggle and laugh and lean on her. I pause to read a guide-book in several foreign languages. I write on lined, ruled paper left abandoned by a student. I fold it neatly in half, into tiny squares for a bookmark. I hurl volumes at the mean girls. I stab devils with strong words and sharp-pointed pencils. I decide the right time to turn off the tarry, mucky highway when I want to. I, I, I, I, I. I am ready to rest, to wash, to talk now. My reason is to have contact with you and everyone and all of us. Done, finished, over with walking, falling, holding the sack of junk and bits of rags made out of rough scratchy fabric. And here is a beautiful place to stay. Kay Castaneda
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