Wayfaring Stranger - N. Thomas Johnson-Medland - Bog

We are nomads. We are all nomads. We are all nomad singing our lives into the night. Our lives arise, melodies and syncopated rhythms giving way to meanings and tellings. Shadows, echoes, and flickerings. Hints, mumblings, and innuendo.
Some of the stanzas are whispers and others are loud, slow dirges. Some we sing alone. Others are call and response. We rarely sing together (all of us at once and in the same place), but we do. From time to time. Quite often when we are not trying to. Quite often we sing together, but from different places in time and space.
A call. There is some sense of our nomad-self--our nomad soul--which responds to an inner and an outer call. It is as if the inner thrum--that ambient hum of our individual life--is lured to and infatuated with the outer thrum--that other ambient hum of life, the one for all that is. The calls meet up and they bond themselves covalently. That which is inside is magically seduced by that which is outside.
Come and join the Caravan you are already a part of.