The Vanquished Vagabond

I spent much of my younger years as a vagabond, it is the life to which my very soul was drawn. While not looking. I found someone. That person claimed a desire to move with me. However, over time it was apparent she did not share my wanderlust. Sadly, I had become accustomed to a life of predictable stability. I wasn’t settled, I had settled.  

Eventually my spirit forced me to flee. I had “the conversation.” She was unwilling to explore. Ileft. I was free to soar, to spend my days near the ocean I so love and adore. 

Yet, stability had done its damage. There was something compelling me to return. Was the free spirit of youth not the correct path? Was it not the real me? Or, was I simply used to being chained? Did a form of Stockholm Syndrome become my perceived reality? 

I am not sure if it was the holidays or something else, but I allowed fear and loneliness, which had morphed into near crippling anxiety, cause me to reject that which was my true self. I traveled the more than one thousand miles and voluntarily returned to the cage. I thought I wanted to be anchored. Now, my decision has left me not grounded, but shackled, and possibly dying. It is better to live happy and die sad, but it is worse to both live and die sad. I don’t think I will ever escape, and try as I might to choose to be happy, it is suffocating to do so drowning in the comfort of despair. 

 

 

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www.ShortStoryScribe.com

 

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