I wander. With no aim for no where. I wander especially deep because each bend in the path, the crest of every hill, the lure of Not Knowing is the prospect of Finding Out. And I do so love to Not Know and Find Out.

When I hold still, when I stay put follow rules stick to the plan, there is too much repetition. My mind forgets to pay attention to what is interesting to what is now. So I wander. I wander large.

It is dawn from the wrong side of day. And wonderlust wanderlust has lured me out before this thick fog can rise. I push forward into somethingnot - I can see only twenty feet away. I must step again to force vision through and reveal the next mystery.

But wandering in the fog is a wine glass teetering off the shelf. You reach, but it dances down in awkward fluidity off the tips of your fingers. Fred and Ginger until the floor breaks our fall and exposes us for the shattered mess we are.

You think you are forging new frontiers wandering the fog, but don't look behind, it is closing in surround you.

Dawn and fog and lack of sleep until the visions the voices the layers come. Until you, my Blurred Lover, appear as a somewhat shape. Moving towards - a ghost, an apparition, a dream.

Without questioning this experience I walk straight to you (questioning is the enemy of dreams come true). And an echo sounds from my foggy center. A voice thick with unquestioned mystery, "You can't screw this up." Not a monition, but an assertion. Pure and potent, this love, like the fog tempting me deeper. I can wander forever, but I'm always in the middle of it.

My gypsy wonderlust even, can not screw this up.

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