He was seventeen when he read Into the Wild.
And then I showed up.
I met him on that little bridge
That crosses the stream
Down where the park dips
And crosses over into the fairgrounds.
It was a crossroads,
A crossing over.
And I was the thing
That he had read about.
And he found it not
Upon the Alaskan Tundra,
But standing on the edge
Of his town,
Where the safety of his pristine
Met the wild and almost reckless hope
And I was almost dead,
And barely born.
And I trembled
And fluttered like the leaves.
But still, I was a wild thing.
And the fancy swirls
That adorned their covered porches
Couldn’t lure me.
And I left.
But the reality of what he saw remains.
It sinks deep into his dreams
And calls him to the wild places,
He and others.
And perhaps you are next.
Come meet me there
On the little bridge
At the edge of town.
I cannot promise I will stay,
But I don’t need to.
If it is freedom that you want,
Then all it takes
Is to see one free
To know that it is possible.
There were no books in the beginning.
And he stood upon the hilltop garden
From which flowed all life, all truth.
And the life giving waters flowed forth
To water the four corners of the earth.
And did not God say that it was good?
And I believe that he was right.
And so that is where I am going:
Back to the garden.
I am done with facts and formulas.
I am done with calculations.
I will drink from the stream
Which flows from God Himself.
For I am not wise enough to interpret.
I am not keen enough to see.
I am lost.
And not even your brightest minds
Or earth's brightest souls can save me.
You say that you will translate it all again,
And that this time you will get it right,
And that once you do
That we will find Him within it's pages.
And the books pile high.
But they will not reach heaven
Though you build a tower past the clouds.