Today is one month

Past my twenty-ninth birthday

Eleven months

Until my thirtieth.

Three decades.

I'm satisfied with

All I've done so far.

I haven't known

Where I've been going

But what is it to be lost,

When the entire universe

Welcomes you home?

Even in the lack of illumination,

When you're lost in the

Depths of the forest

And this tree looks

Like that tree

And moss grows to the north

But who's to say which

Direction is best,

Wandering is more

Like exploration

Than being aimlessly lost,

Being lost is clinging to a fear

Of today's here,

Being gone; the fear of change.

The paralyzing trepidation

That the next step you take

Will be with foot planted

On eroding ground

And every inch of progress

That lies behind

Will be abandoned

You can't stop traveling though,

Unless you should actively

Assume responsibility

For terminating your journey

Because the jagged rocks

Have destroyed your sole

Or because you can't bare

The constant unknown

The unpredictable predictability

Or that day after day

It all still looks the same

It continues until

Your feet will no longer carry you.

Then the expedition is done.