When I was a young man I carried my pack
And I lived the free life of a rover
From the Murrays green basin to the dusty outback
I waltzed my Matilda all over
It occurs to me this morning that I may be going about things all wrong. In the past month I have declined invitations to go to Thailand, India, and Mexico from various close friends and loved ones, and for what?
As a man of 36, a few breaths away from 37, I am still as loosely tethered to God and Country as I was at 26, or 27. No kids. No mortgage. I could join the French Foreign Legion if I wanted and all I would have to do is find someone to take my cat.
I won’t go into my rewarding work, and all that it means to me (seriously) but a person can serve humankind in many ways.
What’s to fear?
I could just walk out the door and keep on going, because one day there will be no more green fields.
And now every April I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me
And I watch my old comrades, how proudly they march
Reliving old dreams of past glory
And the old men march slowly, all bent, stiff and sore
The forgotten heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask, “What are they marching for?”
And I ask myself the same question
Ever feel like taking a hike?