Misfit

Under the coastline summer sun, a man stood still. His sweat has grown cold, soaking his white linen shirt. He gulped down the murky water he keeps inside a bottle he carries around his neck. Unsavory taste filled his throat but he has no choice. It’s either the murky water or letting dehydration nonchalantly kills him. It’s been months (or even a year, he lost count of the time) since he seeks solace between the melancholy mountains and packed cities. He likes to call himself a rolling stone, because that’s what people like to call him. It sounds endearing. At least better than lost. Like now, for example; he’s stuck as the sunlight gnawing his golden skin before he started to chase mirages.
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He knows it wasn’t real. But his weary steps choose to keep going to a home sweet home. A house filled with lilts and hymns. It is, at least for him, much better than finding an oasis or cavern to sleep in.

He knows it wasn’t real. But is it wrong – for a spur of a moment – to believe in it?

His eyes full of despair; somersaulting to come to someone who no longer afraid to embrace his fears and misery. On his ear they’ll whisper;

“Come closer, fighter. It is time to heal your wounds.”

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The obscure moon irradiates his face when he snapped back to reality. Removed from the all the ritz and glitz, he gets back on his feet. He soon finds himself walking around in a daze; trying to find anything else to consume besides the murky water. He’s been cynical about life and maybe it should stay like that. For his life is nothing but the murky water he brought all along. But for a glimpse of a second he almost,

kind of,

close to,

nearly,

believe that I was not a delusion. That he didn’t leave the home that no longer whole. That he’s not misplaced. That he isn’t a strange man in a strange land.