10.23.19
I feel most free, most inspired, when on the country roads. Or perhaps when the vehicle takes the shape of my body itself, as I scale the mountain, with my canine companion in close but free proximity. I notice that in these instances I am most empowered to reach for a future that feels truly worthwhile. I can swallow the hard truths of a sociopathic necessity that working for a worthwhile future may entail; I can appreciate how deep my affections for my budding lover run, as there is a decompression in my chest that leads to newly opened cavities of affectation. I am in love with this sunlight as it cuts through the lightness of open and yet to be plowed fields. The shimmering, fiery yellow of stalks of wheat as they wilt in late season briskness bring tears to the eye. No color of watercolor can redeem this, I decide. I swallow and inhale deeply even as the air carries the tinge of cattle dung smell, because these things are natural. These things poise a freedom that must be worthwhile to pursue.
My pockets are empty as I turn them inside out, twisting like an elbow joint which is not meant to give. There is no coin but I still have a raw bravery fighting for what feels right in this world, to bend to the tiny pool on the side of a stream, to take a drink of sheer and spiritual pleasure even while the clock runs dryly in the background. What has been most hard in this journey, thus far, is remembering or mustering a vision for a future that indeed feels worthwhile enough to fight upstream against all these circumstances. The cards truly are stacked against me: debts right and left, disappointed family, friends, former lovers. No one maintains an updated vision for me; no one sees. But this is my mirror to cast, my stone to throw and break the stillness of my stagnant reflection with.
I think of how most often, it is elderly people I see on these trails during the off-season. Perhaps as they have aged, and surely they have accumulated heavy pockets of liberty and river stones, they realize, too, what matters: climbing up behind these rocks, over the steady stream, to sit behind the waterfall and listen to that sacred and ageless sound as it smothers out every anxious or lonely impulse. To be bathed by the world in a wonderful embrace as its forces harmonize. Would it not be noble to seek this truth from the start of ones "career"? Time is our common denominator and in this way, there are no pockets to meaningfully expose.
The capitalistic ecosystem feels like a harsh predator taking on the likes of a desert sandstorm or brutal blizzard, an equilibriating force that moves with the disordered arrow of time. I am the weary traveler (which is every soul) and I intend to sit by each and every oasis I find to sip deeply and softly. I will bead these vistas along like flowers chained to a garland. I would like to be the park ranger someday. I will not let my age dictate a weak demise. This I must tell myself, even as I turn back towards my bleary portfolio, shoveling pixelated coal, hoping the shackles of 9-6pm takes me someplace from where an enduring rest is soon viable.