I really don't know where to begin with this. There is a tornado of barely recognizable ideals and morals playing a ferocious game of capture the flag with reality and conveluded attempts at reason and understanding. On continues the games through the dreamscapes into the early morning hours only to be set slightly out of sight with the welcome white static of the days necessary tasks. How has it come to this place of complete complacency with sacrificial values?
I'm not sure at which juncture back on what shadowy road that I let my stead fast, slightly feminist, ethics regarding what will and will not be acceptable loom off. Just out of reach but yet I maintain the outlines of their figures against the night sky. This road I meandered carelessly onto is all too familiar. I veil my eyes and can comfortably feel my way down the worn path, carefully stepping over rocks and avoiding branches.
I can sense that although the trees have grown I find myself closer to their brambly tops. Puzzled at how my own growth seems to be catching that of the leafy curtains that sway together to obstruct my view. I can feel my shadow back on the lower road, whispering through the crisp air, calling to me to rendezvous at the nearest intersection.
Fear of what predator watches from the depths of the woods crawls up from the pit of my stomach, the primitive survival instinct, like battery acid that burns the back of my throat. I can begin to smell it as it pimples my arms and weighs down my legs. The salt stings the corners of my eyes as I fight back to maintain the clarity in my vision. There is no indication of what is that is paralyzing about the usual comfort of my own woods.
Only moments ago I bathed in the sweet refreshing comfort of my steady stream. The water that washes away lonelieness and contributes to the cycle of sustinance, breathing life into all that roots near its edge, has been tarnished by an upstream intruder on the quiet land. Its waters are graying and rolling with more turbulance over the large stones. It seems the life forces that have required the existance of the stream for its survival have unknowingly made a blood pact to stand faithfully stead fast and weather the change without any knowledge of the outcome.
Over time, the foliage begins to lose its vibrance. The flowers still bloom however from sadder buds, and the 4 legged ones visit only when the steam sleeps.
Who is this unknown entity that has begun to tarnish the once clear refreshing waters? There is more bite to the dip of a toe and less comotion in the absence of pollywogs and water skippers.
During moments of temporary shifts in currents on the wind I can smell the unwelcome party. The scent overpowers the putrid battery acid on my breath choked down by the necessity of progress. Fear duels with rage at the impact on my surroundings that the intruder has gifted. Though its intentions do not smell of havok and pain, they appear to be absent of regard and accountability. Life near the stream will not thrive in the presence of the most vile of impurities.
The scales falter back and forth between
familiarity without vibrance and in the absence of genuine intimacy opposed to
Fresh adventure riddled with uncertainty, painful growth, and a reuniting with the wandering shadow of my ideals and morals
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