If I slow enough, time doesn't matter.
It maintains its rhythm like a river of melted snow.
Ever downward. To what end it matters not.
Watching the movement of people between the line segments that represent their life seems to flow into a motion and a pattern of predictability.
That river follows what it knows. And what it has become over time
It's purpose is to exist. Nothing else.
I listen to the sounds with each passing step they take. Each breath.
The echoes in the wind that is displaced by movements.
Whispers.
The ripples and reflections. They all have a wave length that can be heard and seen.
I watch as the light reflects off and of the shadows passing beneath and between the shifts.
Action yields to will and back again.
In unison it enters into another phase, quite similar as to a solid to a liquid to a gas. Then back again.
It doesn't have to be. But it is. Choice rules supreme.
It is a life of choosing. I need to remind myself of this.
To fly is to be free.
I've been told it is peaceful. Or mostly harmless. I do not know.
This flow has an inherent simplicity, however it functions within a closed system for most. There is a bliss to be found.
This system is safety from the outside world and safety from the fear of growing into truly that thing that could guide us to a deeper place.
Accept this.
I've never fit that pattern.
I only understand it in concept. I don't seem to be able to maintain any emulation for long enough to be accepted.
It didn't make sense when I've tried. There are far too many unanswered questions.
It has always been the questions I sought to set me free.
And far too many answers for questions I didn't ask.
The system replicates itself for billions of those that embrace it. As it should.
It is a pre requisite for compatibility with others doing the same thing.
Reinforced with each breath. Fear prevents growth.
The routine is the normal.
Challenge the status quo if you are brave and foolish.
Dare not deviate from the norm.
It feels so foreign even now as I watch another incarnation pass in front of me.
I've tried to adapt. I just can't seem to make it work.
I can smile with the mob. And enjoy its presence. I just can't really relate to being complacent as the swamp pulls deeper.
The pattern flows. And repeats.
Some look to renew with an active avoidance of the larger picture.
Perhaps this is another in the series of illusions or a dream I am in.
Perhaps this is just another day.
I really don't know.
i guess I shall remain lost.
