Gypsy Ramblings

Do you ever feel like walking away, walking about, just get off your chair and walk, past the door, the garage, the garden, the street, the avenue, the highway, until the concrete dies out and the day melts into darkness and the cold of the nigth wraps you up and your tears trail behind your steps, and you worries bounce off and get lost, and your names get stuck on a tree branch and just hang there, and whatever you thought you were peels off and becomes a shadow and the scream in your mind turns first into a whisper and then into nothing? Do you know what is it like?

It's like the murmur of gypsy caravans rolling away in the middle of the night, trading softly over the wet grass. And after the dance and the drums and the guitars, there is just the soft crackle on the bonifire, warm sunflower surrounded by the wild children of my own Neverland, as they slumber before the next move, the next big journey into the great big somewhere.

'What is it that you want?' the high brow bitch in me asks, raising her chin.

I want one last adventure before I become venerable.

One last dance in front of the fire. One last fly with my cape flapping behind, just for the heck of it, before I put on my glasses and I become Clark Kent/Superman/Saviour of the world forever more, remembering that with great power comes great responsibility (or was it Spiderman?) and all that blah blah blah. One last run, naked in the rain, without worrying about my lungs and my dignity. One last time away from me, embracing the alternataive I, my gypsy girl making music with the bangles in her arms, one last time.