Chasing asphalt from Glasgow to Birmingham

Chasing asphalt from Glasgow to Birmingham. It was hard to leave. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Scotland in the sun and it was just what I needed. There is something about a city in those first warm days of the year. The shedding of cold weather clothes, pale skin washed in rays cut through layers of tired ozone. The collective gratitude gasp of countless commuted prison sentences. If I could chase this feeling I would. I would give it all up to worship with the masses in lands of forgotten light, reborn. Today I was a native. My history, if only for the afternoon, forgotten. I buried my accent and my origin so I too could feel that warmth around me like the embrace of a welcome stranger. In the end though, I am the stranger. When I travel this far from home I carry an ache with me. A drifter melancholy shot full of curiosity and hope for the future. When the chord is cut, there is so much to collect in the ether, but the return is always riding with me. Home is both the shadow and the light from which the shadow is born. What my eyes see with my heart so full of longing is the outline of a path. The road from who I am to who I will be. I do not travel with the map, I travel in search of it.