Transitions

Again, I find myself between the old world and the new. The sounds of crumbling stone are at my back as the vines rise up reclaiming what’s rightfully hers. I’m reminded of the old phrase ‘a rolling stone’ and so on. Full of shit that is. Goodbyes layer themselves over the years. It might not be moss, but it’s heavy nonetheless. At least the sunset on the horizon is always beautiful—promising that even if it all goes to shit, and the ship goes belly up, that there will always be something beautiful in the new. To my fellow weary adventurer, allow the dead to burn away, but don’t look back lest you join the flames. Wash the blood from the decks, set your sails, and hoist your anchors. We’ll catch the sunset yet.