The Essence of Constant Movement

by Ashe Vagabond of the Vagabond Express


Restlessness. Flight. Taking flight. Movement. Move to there. Move to where that new language is, the one I haven’t heard yet. Get on the train that goes past a field of sunflowers by the million. Sit with your face nearly pressed into the glass, like a 5-year-old child, wondering how many sunflowers are out there, wondering how fast the train is travelling, how many miles we’ve gone, and how it’s possible that someone could plant that many sunflowers. Who waters them and how? Does it take all day?


And why, really, why have I never heard of this before? How did I really go my entire life without ever SEEING such a sunnsssight before. Rows and rows in miles along the train, these tall, green stems with their bright yellow circular heads. (Do they go  on forever?) 

Who knows what this looks like? You cannot imagine it until you see it. Until you realize that you’re not behind an office desk, at a mall, preparing for things we truly may not live to witness. You’re flying past a gazillion sunflowers on a train towards where.


Photo taken by

The ocean was grand. I grew up on the California coast. That ocean could make me cry. Then I found out about miles of sunflowers standing an inch apart, canyons so deep that one could fall (forever?) into darkness, dirt trails through hills of green that dance in the wind, cobblestone pathways, bowing oak trees with stories to tell. I found out that somewhere, out there, are relics of my ancestors. There are monuments speaking of who was here before. There are expanses of this world ever so different from the ones here.

So. Go. Go there.

Uncovering the mystery of this giant playground, as though she is my intimate lover, I seek out every color, each smell, hot and dry climates, depths and corners whether untouched or imprinted upon with billions of footprints across the years.

This life is a wildcard. This body is a temporary vehicle. This world is a big, huge, unread book—it’s something fleeting, as are our lives. Here today. Gone tomorrow.

Believe me. I know this much. I’ve watched someone I love die. It happens fast. Real fast.

You’re making plans.

And it’s over.

To merely stop and smell the roses is to sell yourself short. Run through them. Yank them from the Earth, at least one or two. Weave the stems into your hair. Endure those thorns when they prick you.

Before they whither away.


Photo is Claude Monet’s ”Rose field near Argenteuil Sun.”


One Comment to “The Essence of Constant Movement”

  1. H.L. Mencken: “It is the dull man who is always sure, and the sure man who is always dull.”

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