HOME | DD

Description
He stands at the edge, looking in. This could be me someday, he thinks. He has returned, and soon, not soon enough, he leaves, rings jingling atop his shakujou. He is only visiting this scar upon the world, after all.

He doesn’t like the permanence of staying in one place, which is what ultimately awaits him somewhere down the road, waving to him with the fervor of an old friend he hasn’t seen since long ago. As long as his feet keep moving, as long as he wanders far, making the best of time as it slowly shrinks, then all would be well.

If only the hole in his hand would shrink as well.

With wandering feet come wandering hands and a wandering mind, as if wanderlust of this sort were contagious or even expected. They don’t always intercommunicate; each of these nomads is pretty much independent.

His feet travel with the others, hell-bound along half-aimless paths. His hands slip into forbidden territory, often along treacherous backsi- backroads. A simple guide keeps him from straying too far. As for his thoughts, what his mind whispers to him with worry, he’d rather not stoke the fire. There are enough troubles among them all without sharing his own aloud. He hides them behind silence and a smile.

Each step is another moment of conflict left unsaid, stepped upon but only partially crushed underfoot. He finds it easier to leave these trampled worries barely alive and continue on toward what awaits him. He wanders through life, pressing toward removing the curse from his father’s father’s so-called sins. Ahead of him lies a lonely path and he might not reach the end, disappearing, marring the trail with a crater.

His heart doesn’t wander, though. Its waver is a mirage; its destination is her heart.

Description
He stands at the edge, looking in. This could be me someday, he thinks. He has returned, and soon, not soon enough, he leaves, rings jingling atop his shakujou. He is only visiting this scar upon the world, after all.

He doesn’t like the permanence of staying in one place, which is what ultimately awaits him somewhere down the road, waving to him with the fervor of an old friend he hasn’t seen since long ago. As long as his feet keep moving, as long as he wanders far, making the best of time as it slowly shrinks, then all would be well.

If only the hole in his hand would shrink as well.

With wandering feet come wandering hands and a wandering mind, as if wanderlust of this sort were contagious or even expected. They don’t always intercommunicate; each of these nomads is pretty much independent.

His feet travel with the others, hell-bound along half-aimless paths. His hands slip into forbidden territory, often along treacherous backsi- backroads. A simple guide keeps him from straying too far. As for his thoughts, what his mind whispers to him with worry, he’d rather not stoke the fire. There are enough troubles among them all without sharing his own aloud. He hides them behind silence and a smile.

Each step is another moment of conflict left unsaid, stepped upon but only partially crushed underfoot. He finds it easier to leave these trampled worries barely alive and continue on toward what awaits him. He wanders through life, pressing toward removing the curse from his father’s father’s so-called sins. Ahead of him lies a lonely path and he might not reach the end, disappearing, marring the trail with a crater.

His heart doesn’t wander, though. Its waver is a mirage; its destination is her heart.