Pack your things, descend the mountain, fall back to earth. The hunt is over, the quest is finished, the adventure is done; it's time to go home. Wash your face, clean your clothes, mend your wounds. Back to the village, to familiar faces and worn footpaths, to routine and tradition. Return the hammer to the nail, the pen to the paper, the plow to the field. Family, friends, familiarity; sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset. Again and again. But it's not enough.
Boots to fresh earth, rains crashing against naked heads, burdens riding weary shoulders, winds through unkempt hair, suns against broad backs, strong and sure. The world ahead, nothing else matters.
Stress in the eyes, coffee in hand, cars, people, going, moving, clients, bosses, typing, working, slaving, surviving, dreaming--dreaming. Back to the woods, back to the mountains, to danger and uncertainty, unknown and impossible; back to legend and lore, myth and mystery. Anything can happen.
The window calls, the horizon beckons, the eagle screams overhead.
Be here.
The sun never stops, rising and falling like the tide.
Longing, yearning, wishing.
Dreaming.
But it's not enough.
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