pressing my almost-frozen hands deep inside pockets which, among other less important qualities, are lacking in warmth, I walk through streets thickly filled with a mist of dancing snow. Body bent, eyes staring low, I swim through this inescapably chilling whiteness... Where to, I forgot. Yet the path is traced and the steps are made. How far will I get? And for what purpose? These will remain questions I cannot answer. On one hand, there is home and the fireplace. On the other, there is a body aching to feel and experience. And I guess the body always wins, its call, after all, continues to be too strong to ever be denied. 'Take me to the edge of the abyss,' it calls out. 'Take me beyond what you deem the limit of all possibilities,' it demands. And what am I but a weak link in this chain of command, stretching from here to who knows where?
They say, 'The young is restless.' So I ask, 'Will I ever grow old?' And the answer comes back, echo of forgotten echoes, 'Why the haste? It all shall come in due time. One step after the other, the path is walked, from beginning to end, whether you walk or run. So enjoy the journey, and if you stumble, fall and bruise your shins, or knees, do not wallow on your fate for too long, instead, stand up, dust yourself, smile, or even grin, for there is still much, yes, much more to come.'
So I press on, through snow and chill, always forward, always in a circle, from cycle to cycle, of which I remain the center, as well as the furthest perimeter. And ask as I may, the only answer I get is nothing more but an echo of forgotten echoes.
Moving, I am.
P.S: There are a few books, I've been reading lately and which I do not mind recommending, one of which isn't published yet, and so will have to wait on that, but the others, I can surely mention here: Death with Interruption -by Jose Saramago (and how could I resist?) Liberty -by Garrison Keiler... and I'll save the rest for next time.
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