Hey there,
It's John here.
Thank you for being here with me.
I was travelling recently and came across this extraordinarily beautiful prose poem by the poet Joy Sullivan and I thought it would be really lovely to share it with you.
This is called Instructions for Travelling West.
First,
You must realise you're homesick for all the lives you're not living.
Then,
You must commit to the road and the rising loneliness,
To the sincere thrill of coming apart.
Divorce yourself from routine and control.
Instead,
Find a desert and fall in.
Take the trail that promises a view.
Get lost.
Break your toes.
Bruise your knees.
Keep going.
Watch a purple meadow quiver.
Get still.
Pet trail dogs.
Buy the hat.
Run out of gas.
Befriend strangers.
And knight yourself every morning for your newborn courage.
Give grief her own lullaby.
Drink whiskey beside a hundred-year-old cactus.
Tell her everything.
Pray to something unnameable.
Fall for someone impractical.
Reacquaint yourself with desire and all her slender hands.
Bear beauty for as long as you are able.
And if you spot a sunning warbler glowing like a prism,
Remind yourself joy is not a trick.