The Journeyman Years

Written by NOAH SHALOM

Journeymen. I am one of them. It took me a while to realize that I am in the middle of my journeyman years. I’m not exactly sure when I am coming out of them (I’d like to think within the year). Lots of us are in what I am referring to as ‘The Journeyman Years’, a time full of couches, parents, grandparents, fluctuation, dependence, and nothing to put in the permanent address line. Just know friends, many of us are wading in the Journeyman Years.


Here. A poem. Written by a successful person. Mr. (         ):




I’ve gotten off the caravan,

And the camels wasted no time galloping back towards where I came from,

Without me.

There is no schedule for caravans.

No lists with times stamped in columns,

No attendant to answer inquiries.

Nothing can tell you when the next caravan is coming

To take you back the way you came.


But—there are signs.

Signs, that one is on the horizon, perhaps.

No such signs exist now, but that is only to be expected.

So here I travel on foot,

Marching on with a faint guiding beat stretching out my legs in some rhythm.

The native people here don’t seem to regard me as one of them.

This excites some, and annoys others,

But I must keep bobbing along regardless.


Bobb Bobb Bobb Bobb Bobb.


Bobb Bobb Bobb Bobb Bobb Bobb Bobb.


I hear there is an inn somewhere nearby,

For resting.

Resting is good, almost sufficient.

But it doesn’t bring home the caravans.

No, you need something more akin to an oasis.

Then the Caravans come.

And take you back.


Lots don’t take the Caravans.

In fact, the Caravans already picked them up,

And brought them to their final destination.


Me though, I need another Caravan.


It is possible to follow the trails of the Caravans back the way I came,

But then I will end up exhausted,


And with little of my shoes remaining on my feet.

Not a way to travel back to where I came from.

No, I need a Caravan.




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