The river

I came back to the river, and the river was still running. Different water, but still the same. It’s been here a long time, the river, but always changed, and I think my life, and all life, is also much the same. Thoughts stream. Ideas flow. People come. People go. Life swells, then ebbs in drought. The river is certain, and so is the doubt. There is a cat beside me, also looking at the water. Why is it looking? What are its thoughts? Are they part of the same stream, of conscious thinking, just like the bee, the buzzard, the fox? Are we all one, like the molecules of water, different identities but all the same thing? Why do I wonder, when I’ll never know? The deepest of thinking, will never certainty bring.

Sometimes

Sometimes the trick, is to stop in the moment, and realise that you are free of the past. It has gone. All of it. Assess only what the moment of now presents, and move on. The past sends reverberations, of course, especially if there are buried bodies, metaphorically, or even literally I suppose; but it nevertheless no longer exists. It has gone. Review the now, now…, now…, now… and move on.

Returning

The 737, tiny in the distance, massive with its load, rose high in the air on its carriage of wind. The stream of Vauxhalls, Fords, Dacias, trucks, vans, Audi’s… oh… a Porsche… thundered down the slick grey surface, a glittering snake of internal combustion and occasional quiet electricity. The Earth slowly turned in its furnace of bright sunlight. I held the wheel gently, while the flickering nerves in my skull made me contemplate these things. Made me? Or did I choose? Who knows? And the lady sat beside me, eyes closed. Asleep? Consciousness ebbed, gone... where? I am here again, and she is there.