Traveling

Noises in the room keep whispering —
we are addicted.

Addicted to the self.
To traveling for the self.

The ego always knows, I guess —
when it needs solitude,
when it needs to be alone,
when it decides to be happy.

We are just traveling.
Between addictions,
between passions,
between investments,
between what exists
for the ego.

We travel even in our sleep.
Everything is traveling.

So just travel.
Travel,
because we are all
just traveling.

Bernice Zoleka Mannie
@LYAIOZ MANNIE
Copyright © | Year Posted 2025

Poem

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