Weary Travails

From the time the Sun creeps up stealthily into the clear sky, to the time when the sky is splashed with a bucket of ink dotted with white stars, I continue a search, an exploration speaking scientifically, a foray into a new patch of Earth every day. Come, take a little walk with me, as I stroll past alien lands. I don't tire easy, I'm a fighter they tell me. Its never easy, never was, coz the weather doesn't stay fair for too long. I usually take shelter under the leaking tin roof in the country side. Keeps me sheltered, despite the soft pattering of rain on me which ceases fire by the morning. I like the songs of the trees. They are the same everywhere. I like the colorful masses of people. Unless I'm seeking refuge, they appear like little children going round and round on a giant Ferris wheel. They don't stop. Almost ever.
Sometimes people look at me for a while longer. They seem to search for something. My weary feet carry me faster. But then, everyone seems to be searching for something.
I pick a dust laden book sometimes. I like you. You are a shade better than the over cast sky. You're a book. In you I travel miles more than my weary, two feet could actually every carry me.
Ahead lies the zenith. Or is it. Yet another adventure. It could be nippy or for all I know I could be braving the Sun. Another silent treatment? Or will the woods speak to me? A parallel world?
It could be the black or the white or the yellow. I don't think I even want to know.
All I want is an all-absorbing land. A trajectory which connects the roots. Of the black, the white, the yellow. My roots.
All I want is the stretch of pan-existence which will let me taste the two spoons of sugar I add to my tea.