Still water runs deep but caverns are season-blind

One cannot trick time and one cannot trick oneself. Ignorance aids not the eluding of wrinkles. Blind eyes see no outcome. You cannot tape dead leaves to the bottom of your shoe and expect them to whisper to the dirt the same words the falling leaves do. Those golden echoes, leaves as embodiments of time carry certain rhythms and rhymes one cannot counterfeit. Rich life is rich poetry and one cannot block the past for experience is not intravenous, it cannot be injected. For I will never be a creature of 4, one to have passed all the seasonal showers if I continue being swung into equinox. Hunters need hunt, and that I shall do. But how how can I skin if my own reeks of sin? I cannot be a victim any longer if my bite marks and scars elude sight as I caress into hiding. What’s more, the beasts that I need hunt are mentioned in no tales of gallant heroes. That is no incident for I’ve spoken no word of my travels. Nobody has witnessed my battles and even if it were so, they would not sing of victory for I’ve yet to achieve such. I am but a callow merchant out of stock and vigor, walking down a path nobody was walked down before. Not that it should be a target of adulation or pride for it does not fit my occupation. Yet my feet kick the ground and rise dust as my ears are often penetrated by the turmoil of the crowds on the other side of the mountain. I think of my own pace as a raving of endless wishes falling upon perpetually deaf ears when I see the leaps of those headed my way. They rush vehemently but as they lap me I see their nonchalant steps. I worry. Am I forcing myself onto kindred? Is my manipulation of nature a selfish act? The chasms of dim response I hope to end at my target location spark in me such turbulence. They give rise to waves and clashes of thought, hurricanes of doubt. Will I ever be the same as I was if I had started out on the other side of that wretched mountain. I have not experienced the frosty chills of winter yet hollow chasms have taken their turns freezing over my heart. I have not experienced the sun-kissed hands of summer adventures yet I’ve sweat in plains of dried grass. I have not experienced the flower crowns of springtime blossoming yet petals have found their way at my feet as chirping birds accompanied my next steps. I have not experienced the visibly changing colors of the leaves of autumn but I’ve been splashed with all the colors everyone on that side of the mountain has ever seen fall. I will never go through what you did and perhaps my ravings of burst blood vessels will never entice what this pallet has begeted into you. But I’ve been to wastelands with nothing but telescopes, and from what I’ve seen of this planet maybe I do not wish to be a spawn, engendered by this world’s corrupted colors. I’m ashen but not dusty. I have traveled across the land ending up where I began. But I have not a thought of complain. I now take the turns I longed to step onto and the same water reflects my dilated pupils of everchanging tints. But I no longer go by the same name nor face and even my age has been increased a bit. I cannot fool you so I confess: I am not one of you. I will never be one of you. For I walked down a different path hoping to end up where you started. But I landed somewhere I’d never seen before. I ended up in a comfort zone encompassing all I see at any time, at any place. I ended up with a mirror in my room reflecting the places I’d been and the places I’ll go. I now wear the shards of my panic on my belt and I know that although in the end all colors blend into black, mine have walked the neutral line of encore and heckle for too long. Sickly tints of seasonal spurts amuse me no longer as I chase down the sun in its year-round glory. And it’s about time I switched swords, for its color matters not if I clutch it with an aura of determination. Perhaps this time the dirt will whisper its poetry of all the beautiful things I’ve seen and all the beautiful things I’ve been. Perhaps this time, spying eyes will hear the sound of my steps and I will sing along under the very same sun. And as the moon rolls along, in a shadowed land I now call home, perhaps I will fall asleep and wake up the exact same me. Perhaps the opposite, or just with a tint of haecceity.

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