"It had stopped raining and the sun was out. The air was thicker for it, but felt like winter was losing it's grip. I set out for a stroll and ended up on a burial mound carved into a mountain. There was no wind and the trees were still as I walked at their feet, softened by the rain and melted snow. The dead leaves beneath feel more like sandwiches underfoot than leaves. So silent is my walk that not even I feel like it's real. I feel like a ghost seen by someone else far off, gliding in the thick wood of a mountain. I pass by a marble headstone, etched in a foreign language and covered in years and moss. Walking upwards and over another ridge a massive modern city unfolds beneath me. For a moment I imagine myself a journeyman whose finally arrived, after some months of travel, at his destination. Then it slams home that this is not my destination, but my beginning. It is where my home is."
Post a Comment