No Direction Home


No direction home (ˈNō – də-ˈrek-shən – ˈhōm), which happens to be the saddest sentence that I can think of in the English language, and I’m not even a Bob Dylan fan, but still. How sad, just to think of it. To be like that, without a home; like a complete unknown. But who among us is like that, really? Is it you or is it me? Or is it both you and also me? And anyway, how awful just to think of it. Just to be like that. To be the center of a compass, with all those points going outwards, the big ones and the small ones, and yet to have no idea what it all means.

Stand there and ask yourself: What are these points? Where are they pointing? Whither now? Hence wherefore to go? What are all these arrows and what do they mean, and what now? Should strike our tent-poles and head out for the North? Or mosey our way on over to the South? Or go East? Left? Down? Catacorner? South-by-Southeast? Up? Or if not, then where then, and what would you suggest?

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