I am on a journey home and I see a woman flexing her arm She is flexing her arm as she waits to depart on her journey home too She is flexing and she is watching the tissue of her arm form in definition of it’s gained strength, and soften under her flesh which is textured in age old scars. There are many scars where she watches her muscle take shape and relax again. To say she is brave is only an additional burden to perhaps the burden she has already tried to appease in the past. For bravery sometimes is a tax none of us wish to pay but only wish to have the relief post its atonement. But I still thinks she’s brave and I hope in the right moment in time she thinks she is too. I am on a journey home and there is a man singing a song to himself about a side of paradise that may or may not exist. He smells of a thousand cigarettes he has smoked beyond the equivalent years of his life time and maybe he is on his journey home too. He sings about a side of paradise that I know doesn’t exist but I hope in the right moment in time he lives there till the embers of his last well earned cigarette may burn and finally smoulder into an infinite night sky. I am on a journey home and I think of all the kind things I would have liked to have said to the woman flexing her arm and the man singing of another side of paradise and I hope someone says something kind to the both of them sometime soon.Â









