I had a ticket, I was clutching my ticket. Even when I managed to get to my destination, this was not the end. After I finally reached my hotel it was 3 a.m. To make a very long story very short, I ended up sharing a bed with the hotel owner's son who graciously took me in and made what was his, mine - including a bedtime snack of milk and crackers. I had a ticket and a reservation, but sometimes, as I learned, while having a ticket entitles you to the journey it by no means ensures you to anything else.
Birth is our ticket to life's journey.
Not always, not ever, maybe and maybe not. Even at this stage of our trip, clutching our ticket in hand, fully visible to us and others, the value of the ticket can be meaningless, the destination printed on it inconsequential - we are on our journey, the train has long pulled out of the station of origination and other stations have come and gone. You and I have been moving. G. K. Chesterton contrived a wonderful little story about an English yachtsman who miscalculated his direction and finally discovered England under the belief that he'd found an unchartered island in the south sea. In typical patriotic fashion, he walked through the shallow water, onto shore and plunged the Union Jack at Brighton's Royal Pavilion.