We appear out of nowhere on a strangers doorstep, a diner bench or gas station stop, hungry, with a bag, a foreign accent and a thousand questions. We stay for an hour, or a night and push off again, full, and rested, leaving behind some dirty dishes, a stray sock, a hangover and a story or two. We disappear down the road never to be seen or heard from again. 

But in that hangover, and on those dishes we leave something else behind, a faded impression of ourselves. An imprint of our soul that says we existed here, and always will.

It’s in this illusory state that I feel most at home. Wandering through the world, wrapped in the stories and lessons of those I meet. Some haunt me, and others warm me, some burn bright and some fade into nothing but there’s no denying they exist, and always will. 

As I’ve been coming and going over the years, when I leave a place I wonder what I leave behind, what part of me stays with them and what is saved for the next? What part of me is lost on the highways I ride, the diners and gas stations, and outposts and suburbs and roadsides and homes I stop at and what is still left to lose? How much more of my soul can I give over until eventually there’s nothing left and I’ll be lost to the road and those I’ve encountered?

/Angus