Recent happenings close to home bewilder me by day, terrify me by night. I am immersed in the profound waters of doubt and, sometimes, despair, as I struggle swimmingly to a far off shore that itself is encased in black mist.
Yet, the shroud of fog does rise. I am able to see outward, through the windows to my soul. A sense of tranquility replaces anxiety and confusion. Arrived, at last, to a calmer state of mind, I am permitted to sort through the simpler things. Scattered pieces of life's puzzle come together of their own accord; my intervention is neither required nor sought. What one commonly refers to as the past is not a block of time and events disconnected from today but a continuance of life, of living, through to this present moment. A flowing stream, irresistible, from my so-called past of no discernible nor recorded beginning. What man's every breath, every move, every thought, is put to paper for a posterity indifferent to the life of a man of no importance?
In that timeless flow from then to now, I see myself not as participant but as on-shore observer. Rushing past me are images of people and buildings and books and the beauties of Nature. And so much more, the more of my former childhood surroundings that have edged their way into my today's reality. It is a continuation of what I started out as and what I continue to be. It is, thus, my own small world of scant reality and too much imagination. All to be forgotten, today's man and his trifling matters ...
Of no importance.