Voyager

The swirl of brown confetti drifted from his palm into the wind, spread out in a dissipating cloud over the vast wastelands. For there he stood in solitary, on the edge of a precipice with confusion etched on his hardened face. On his palm rested the remnants of a tome, his book of days; his life story. Codified within these shreds of paper were carefully crafted tales of grievances, bitterness and hatred. Whether they were of vendettas that were real or imagined, is was of little consequence. Even so, every bit that drifted away tugged at his heart, threatening to rend it apart. Still, he bit his lips in defiance and raised his arm a little higher still, as if to catch a stronger gust.

For they shaped his life; these tales were the seeds of cynicism, the roots of antagonism against society and above all, the progenitor of heightened fear and distrust toward a fellow human being. Whether it was his failure to conform, or the refusal of others to accept him without his array of masks, it was doomed to remain a mystery. As he pondered over the rapidly dwindling pile of scraps on his palm, it struck him that his decision to destroy and discard such a burdensome tome of history was far wiser than it initially seemed.

At last, he seemed poised to forge a new destiny, previously sealed off by the presence of that tome. Perhaps, just perhaps, this marked the turning point on this lonely and melancholic voyage. As the last bit of paper fluttered into the winds, he sighed and turned away. Only time will tell. Picking up his staff, he resumed his journey back into the wilderness once more, the only difference this time, with a lighter load and heart.