Childish

I do indeed struggle with writing like a kid. Perhaps you do indeed lose your ability to write when... when you leave your backpack behind.
When you roam. When there's only you on the road. A road of a foreign language, new currency.
Frigid trees, dry roses... it's you going ahead. Just going. There's no end. But if you stop, you die.
There's no up, there's no down. It's just you walking fast or slow. Tripping on a branch or sprinting.
It's all your perspective of the road, how fast it's shifting from beneath you.

So go ahead, die.
I'm not ahead of you. I'm not behind. I'm not besides, I did not forget you.
We're both nomads.
We both have to go.
And if you don't carry yourself... yes, you could be carried by someone. But that wouldn't be help. Cuz you would still not be walking relative to the road, who is now the person you're standing upon.
So roam, brother. With pride and confidence.

We're both the same, anyway.