[Image by maximus666 at DeviantART]
How long does it take?
To get to where you’re going.
Days come as fast as they go, like dreams, or figments of imagining.
Plans, wishes, hopes gather in the bottom of glasses as focus shifts to children’s tears and washing blowing in the wind.
How long to sing this song?
One day. One day.
You could start walking at birth and not get there by death.
Is that the plan?
Is that the fate of man?
Sometimes I wish to be free. The comings and goings, the ups and the downs – I am worn to someone who isn’t like me.
When nobody is around I sit in the garden. I just sit. Nothing more. Sloth is a deadly sin, I think; but sometimes it is all I am capable of.
I sit and think and grow afraid that the road will beat me. That I will never get there in the end. Then I grow angry with myself for daring to feel disenchanted when so many, so many who have no choice have much, much less than me.
This life, this bella vita, has a gentleness, a joy, a tenderness to it that is there even when the shadows pull at our feet. So we must walk along that road with our heads held high. Looking to the sun, looking to the sky. The old, unbroken road – it’s all part of the purpose, I’m told. So we walk, even if it takes a hundred miles or more.