I don’t know what there is to gain from all this. The Sun is low, hiding behind some drab cloud. The river seems to be moving at a stand still. I am back in this place where all I have is time. Time on my hands. Time to write. To think. And read. Surely there is some contemplative nugget, a gleam of wisdom waiting for me in the woods, if only I am willing to ask for it. My mind returns unceasingly to love, or the lack thereof. It returns to her. Why after all this time I do not know. It is not as if I have done nothing to extinguish the flame. It is not as if I have remained inside, kneeling at some altar. No. I have lived. And yet still the image conjures itself before me.
What does it mean to break free of it? To release myself from its muzzled grip? To wander in these woods without the thought of a ‘once was’. Without the possibility of losing myself in some old reverie; a reverie which ultimately whisks me from reality into a land of dream and vision where anything is possible. And yet, here, here in this place and time, things remain as they are. They do not magically transform to my whims. They set upon me delicately. They offer themselves to me but without the mystical air I yearn for.
The horizon is dull. Hills sloping like wavelengths. River water muddy and green. The woods wait for me to step outside. To embrace them. To gaze fully upon their fresh colors. The violet pinks. The cranberry reds. The whip-whoo of pileated woodpeckers. The long vowel sound of the Earth discovering me.
I sit at my desk as though nothing has changed. As though a month has not gone by since my leave. The leaves outside my window still flutter. Most of them are still hanging on. The dust still collects on my keyboard.
And something within me wants to knock itself loose.
Something within me wants to be released, to find its way back to source.