It falls from the storybook like a pressed flower preserved between the weight of pages. The heft of life stashed sturdy with both great regard and regret. A book you stow away where only tiptoed reflection can reach. The novel that remains unfinished and unedited. The stories that have chapters but seemingly no stringing theme — other than the nature of being a character written, erased, interposed, recreated, etc. But it’s a good story even if not until the painfully anticipated end.
Moments come like weak-kneed yielding to times and places. And time the crucifix we all wear no matter our age or conviction. As noose or necktie, our days hang upon the will of our necks. They either equip or choke us out.
More moments tucking and slipping, hiding and rediscovering. It works this way, and also works its way through present day. Coming as a piercing shard you step on unaware. Or as a whisper in the wind, or aroma you inhale. Or perhaps a vehicle through sound and song. We remember what we need to, I suppose. When we’re ready.
I’ve yet to find the easy path and fear it’s because it does not exist. Not if you are aiming for something whole. Some state of being where all the pieces and pages are patched together by higher logic and purpose. Some things simply don’t make sense here. Many things. At least not with the senses I possess. But I’m quite narrow and I’m quite obtuse, both. ‘Tis a sliver of a road to home and yet it cranes like a feral river careening along every obstruction. It will find a way and so will I if I simply follow.