Maps

I am an enormously small bit of universal dust and flesh. One who is part of everyone, and yet not everyone. I can grow and go and grow, but I also must remember, and I also must know, that I am one and so is everyone. I cannot move any other onto my map. My map is my map. The stars and I write it. It is secret and encrypted. It is worn, folded, and torn. For 38 years I have been opening and pointing, folding, and tucking.  38 years, I have adorned this cotton paper with sketchings and scribblings, stories and destinations, plans, and spontaneous adventures. It only fits in my back pocket.  

We all have maps. My map is my map. And yours is yours. Go on and open it. Look it over. Then tuck it in your back pocket for later.