My Home

Why do I feel more at home on roads like this? My skin is not my own unless it is wrapped in leather or body armor. My head feels incomplete unless it is encased with a helmet. This is my home, always transient, always moving. Searching for a green field with trees and a garden and an old farmhouse; a place that may only exist in my mind; a place to plant and to grow and to enjoy. I shall continue to ride alone, two wheels to asphalt or gravel or dirt. I am alone but not lonely.

A friend lost, knowing not why nor for certain how. Accepting is all that can be done. Accepting that I lost a friend. Accepting that my home, a place of peace and growth and healing may not exist; may not come to be. Perhaps it is all for the better. There is no looking back, only wishing the best for those behind.

And I ride alone.