i have been at war with myself. something in me wants to quit; or else having now summited the pinnacle, scans the ganzfield horizon only to find an echo in the soul that whispers, "Is this it?" i am in want of meaning. i am in hunger of words. i crave a quiet cabin in a nook somewhere with paperbacks and pens and parchment and the effortless quiet that seeps in between the floorboards on frosty mornings while waiting for the kettle to boil.
we went walking to watch the roos go bounding at twilight. a man came stomping down the road toward us dressed all in black with a walking stick that seemed wrought, not found. a large hound, sleek and muscular and at ease with its own presence in the world trotted ahead to snuffle about in someone's yard. the man wore tight pants with a hooded jacket that looked suitable to the weather, which was growing cold in that way that the early days of autumn have. his hair had once been dark; was not yet grey. there was something Mediterranean about his features. olive skinned. weathered. angular. a long beard that was not unkempt, and grey-white-black, reflecting his hair. his eyes were dark; they did not shy away from us. there was recognition; travellers on the path. he greeted us, then whistled for the dog to come, which it did, in its own time. they slipped away into the crepuscular haze. i wanted to be him; hermit of the tarot. i craved what he had secured.
everyone finds their own way through, i suppose. what will be will be. how much longer am i to persist at this mirage? sometimes i feel as though the universe is poised upon me. egocentricism, probably. and yet...
will we, won't we. will we, won't we. will we...
...it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter at all.