A Compass Without North

I stopped asking the stars for directions.

They have their own reasons for being silent.

The old paths are crowded with footprints,
so I have become interested in the places where there are none.

A wanderer learns, eventually, that not every horizon is meant to be reached.

Some are only there to remind you
that the world is larger than the name you gave it.

I carry little now.

A question without a language.
A compass with no needle.
A map whose final page was torn out long ago.

If you meet me somewhere between the known and the forgotten,
do not ask where I came from.

I may no longer remember.

Do not ask where I am going.

I may finally understand the question.

There is an old saying:

The one who seeks the road has already missed the path.

I never understood it.

Perhaps that is why I kept walking.