Move.  Relocation, I mean, from hell to heaven.

Too much endurance stands betwixt the now I hate and the then I want.  Too many tasks demanding attention, too much employment dangling the carrot of income in front of this struggling mule who wants something more.

Time with The Kids seems all but selective, a pinch here mixed with a dash there.  They forgive me, yes, but my soul is stabbed time and again with the want in their eyes, the cherished calls of lonely voices lamenting time not had with Daddy.

Novels?  The first one remains unfinished, stuck in a preliminary rewrite that never ends, each word dashed upon rocks of day-to-day torment called survival.  Many more lie in wait begging for nourishment from my overtaxed imagination.  They despise me, these writs, for they need what I have so little of.

Books lie half unread or as yet unopened on tarmacs where flights of fancy once visited with regularity.

Lives await at the family farm, those no one else seems to love yet who need that which we all require.  They remain the forgotten few, the familiars cast aside by selfishness and utter disregard.

A longing wells up within me, a desire for that so few appreciate, a need within me so powerful as to be the driving force behind each breath.  I long to spread my wings and flit through the air of rurality, meanwhile forsaking the urban being that for too long has held me within its grasp.

Spirits great and wild beg of me that which I have not to give.  Nevertheless, they take what they can, accept the minimum and shower upon me gratitude immeasurable.  What is wild remains unfettered by man-made contraptions built of minds unscathed by loss, yet appreciate those same minds such beasts do…and I fall under their spells time and again.

So what of dreams cast upon the stones of the eternal shore, rent piece by piece upon time’s altar?  What of the unspeakable quests to which we all commit ourselves?

For me, anyway, I keep going, keep questing.

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