Wading

52 rolls

“Even the sea cant stop me from writing something to read in my old age…”
                                                                                   – Kerouac, Big Sur

It takes forever to get anywhere. Dreaming and thinking have temporalities that hardly ever seem to be hastened. It is not as if the mind ever reaches its destination, it always is restless to move on, or be haunted by persistent themes. Walking through forests and woodlands, rustling leaves, creaking branches and bird calls keep me alert, but hardly stop these cogitations. In the shade of twisted branches along the trail I wander hoping to reach the end. Although my ears are wide open, sounds and sensations, never seem to stop or satisfy, or overcome the relentless search of consciousness to defeat the stimulations of pain. Hurt, both physical and psychological, is hard to end. Time was, but now I am getting older.

At the crest of a ridge, suddenly…

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