The Wanderer

Why must I constantly dwell in emotion?
Why can’t I be like the average man?
Why can’t I reach out and get some devotion?
Why is my heart out of touch with my hand?
The moon is to me what the sun is to others.
My day is the night and my summer the fall.
I have no friends that I think of as brothers;
I have no friends that I think of at all.

Why don’t I look for a female companion?
Why do I choose to live my life alone?
Why do I feel like I’m stuck in a canyon?
Why is there no place that I feel at home?
I am a wanderer of places so distant
In human emotion, for ages long gone,
My every journey is done in an instant.
I always seek happiness, of which I have none

Why am I living this life of displeasure?
Why do I long for a faraway coast?
Why don’t I do things that people can measure?
Why all these feelings to which I am host?
I seek a peculiar kind of excitement,
One that no others besides me can get.
I search my soul for a higher enlightenment
That no one before me could ever have met.

Why do I travel this road of damnation?
Why do I follow this quest of the mind?
Why do I feel like I’m under sedation?
Why does it sneak up on me from behind?
These are the questions I meet on my travels.
These are the questions I meet on my way.
Awestruck I watch as the mystery unravels
Suddenly I see the light of the day

Why have I followed this path of confusion?
Why was I never let in on the deal?
Why can I suddenly see the illusion?
Why do I suddenly know what I feel?
I have been climbing up pillars of fire,
Holding the roof of a gigantic dome.
Now I have come to the top of the spire
Now I can finally find my way home.

Why have I spent all these years in the darkness?
Why have I not known there was so much more?
Why have I felt I was strapped in a harness?
Why have I not found out all this before?
My quest is over, I found what I wanted.
No more fruitless trying to peer through the mist.
No more paranoia, and no feeling haunted.
Those empty feelings no longer exist.

Why can’t I seem to hold on to this feeling?
Why does it seem to be slipping away?
Why do I feel I’m obediently kneeling?
Why do things seem to be turning to grey?
Frozen in terror, I see the door closing
While it was open a moment ago.
It feels like having an icy cold hosing
I’m back in the darkness. Why must it be so?

Why was I given this short revelation?
Why was I bathed in its brilliant ray?
Why did it give me this strange dedication?
Why was it suddenly taken away?
I’m back on my wandering, the cycle completed,
No trace of the moment wherever I roam.
It seems that my mind has at last been defeated.
My life is worn out, I’m completely alone…

Wishbone is lives in Denmark where he is studying to become a software developer. He has begun 6 or 7 novels, none of which have reached beyond the "chapter and a half" stage, so now he tries his hand at short stories instead. He writes a lot of poetry and songs, and occasionally fiddles with ray tracing a bit. Oh, and he reads science fiction by the truckload.

Find more by Wishbone in the Author Index.

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