None of us are immune to it. Animal or human. The call of the spirits of the water or the air.
The comfort of the musing that falls upon us is unequivocal, rendering us motionless as pebbles at low tide.
We think we can’t hear it, but it is there, as familiar as the sound of our breathing. Maybe the call of the air or the water is the sound of our breathing.
We run around the city streets. Pacing like office managers. Burdened with the weight of our thoughts, gathering up all our time into must-dos and almost theres.
We are stone on stone.
We are hands clutched like fists.
Our heads are almost hollow.
And then the call comes, muffled but strong.
And wistfulness rises.
We crave it – the lapping water, the whispering air. The place where the spirits reside.
So we stop and look and listen to the spirits when they call.
And they sustain us. And they restore us.
Every single time.
It is better than dreaming.
It is a temple.
It is an altar.
It is a soliloquy.