Chameleon

     Weighing on my shoulders, a heavy coarse and shapeless fabric seals out gray cold winds. It suits me. Mud crusted boots and I cut a most bedraggled form. Leaning, resting my brow against the steely capped staff, the cool metal and wood reassuring, reinforcing my thoughts. I am the ever-advocate of the journey, becoming who you are or were meant to be. Often counsel I give to others, now I seek to apply it more immediately. Many have come and gone from my life, a shared time spent, then off upon their own paths. Shared fires, peace, companionable amicability, then off again separate paths to tread.
     My wings ache, tucked so far behind me and tightly bound, better that than to be seen again. I self consciously tuck loose sleeves back into the wraps on my arms. A fiery prickle ripples through. I shudder, I should know better by now as these changes come each sends the same sensation, cold burning, quickly here and there, radiating. It’s a strange sensation, painful but not terrible, just… exhausting. I know with each wave that what follows is not just physical, but perceptive, perspective. Never judge a book by it’s cover right? What happens when that cover is never the same?
     I’ve seen so much, and struggle to reason why this change happens, what is it I’m supposed to do? I pull my garment close, muscles ache from the thought as I read the sign.
40km, the sign seems to take delight in the grim news. Clouds gather and foot in front of foot I breathe in the day, the moisture of coming rain. Each step closer to my next moment, still wondering what it will bring.
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