Who is this man who looks at me with age in his eye?
The years have drawn lines upon his face.
Time has moved through him, but day by day he has not seen it.
Where did he come from?
He has walked from one life to another, each regeneration created by the choices of the predecessor.
When did this man become my own reflection.
I look upon myself and wonder.
What will he think, when he looks into a mirror, searching for himself, only to find the face, of an old man.
My god is life.
My church is the reality we live.
You must not wallow.
If there is something in your life, or some part of your being.
Its only purpose is to bring you suffering.
You must cast it out.
Or find a way for it to bring you strength.
A strength that you use to protect your own peace.
You will miss this.
This stillness that drove you mad.
This time of quiet and comfort.
This place that you are seen.
This space that you occupy.
You will remember all the good.
When laughter filled your heart.
When love was all around.
When the moment was here and now.
When the world was everyone you know.
You are not me and I am not you.
But when I am, I will know what to do…
I will have seen what you have seen.
I will have been where you have been.
I will have become.
I will return.
I will be lost once again.
I will remember.
Now the world is all who you don’t know.
And the trees you remember.
The grey of English sky.
The downpour that never ends.
The cold winter days.
The wet night lights.
They complain of miserable weather.
But I will always miss the rain.
The words of a past identity that have lost their meaning.
I recycle them and perform them as an actor on a stage.
Now my stage is wherever I find myself.
Myself is a character who knows his lines and when to say them.
For I remember who I used to be, what he said and why he said them.
I use his voice as it recites rhetoric once said with purpose.
I wear his face as the lines are drawn upon it.
But that man is gone and I remain.
A shadow in the night.
A tree in the forest.
A tear in the rain.
A page in a book.
When will I become the writing?
My speech of true idea.
What will I inspire with belief?
My reality of living faith.
Where will I defend a decision?
My act of steadfast intent.
Why will I embrace and accept?
My time of endless death.
Things happen when they need to.
Take what is offered.
Do not try to bend reality to your will.
Nothing is true, everything is real.
You are here now, not in a memory.
This is the time that is, this is when it happens.
Exist with effortless being.
I am perpetually pulled in opposite directions.
My personas parallel in continued existence.
With perspective presents in otherworldly footsteps.
There permanent purpose in living truthfully.
Where powerful pursuit in constant evolution.
Predisposes perplexity in poetic paradoxicity.
What is to stop you feeling this peace.
This feeling of being alive.
This oneness with your own essence.
This harmony with life.
What is to stop you feeling this at home.
With all who you love.
Your freedom is not a place, it is who you are.
You almost gave that all away.
Caging yourself for the sake of a future not yet real.
Never be afraid to be free.
Do not forget yourself.
You have become afraid to be who you are.
You walk in two worlds.
That is a good way not to get lost in either.
You seem to be wherever you find yourself.
Not bad.
When you return remember to live like you did here.
The people you are looking for are everywhere.
Find them.
Wake up.
You are alive.
This life is for you.
Don’t overthink it.
Your time is now.
Live with intensity.
You are a traveler.
But you have a home.
It will always be hard to leave.
It will always be easy to return.
So many goodbyes.
Always moving on.
Still only in moments.
And always thoughts of home.
Its always so wounding.
To leave a paradise of natural beauty.
Full of life and peace,
Good food and fresh air,
And be plunged back into the filth of a city.
Surrounded by the corrupting plague of capitalist practice.
Attempting to sell you poison for the mind and body.
Dystopia assaults me.
Why did I ever leave the farm.
The pursuit of freedom is constant.
To grasp it is a temporary relief.
Before it gets away from me.
And my life ruled by currency once again.
This is my fate.
To chase the idea of a dream I cannot grasp.
To sit alone in a crowd and watch them dance.
Watch them laugh.
Watch them kiss.
I am the spectre searching for a time and place that no longer exists.
This is not my world.
Why do I place myself in it only to suffer the disconnect?
Why do I pursue this misconception?
Why do I not except the conclusion?
This is not my world.
Time and time again I see what I see now.
Yet I continue to circle to the same place.
I continue to have the same realisation.
This is not my world.
The place where I belong.
The space where I thrive.
The time I always leave.
The memory of my world.
Within the festival of humanity.
2025-2026
Dylan Goes Places 