Thu Apr 26, 2018 @ 01:30

I descended from the arid mountain short of food and without water. My cracked lips smacked at the thought of the springs yet to come. Soon I realized I was not alone in this soft valley. I felt the weight of being watched from a sides. Watchers on every hill. Watchers behind each blade of tall grass. I could not ascertain their positions nor did they respond when I cried out a challenge. I was at once alone and surrounded. The soft wind rustled the grass and pulled from the earth a gentle melody. It pulled through my robe cooling my skin. How sweetly did the valley call me. The endless grass sea rolled over me for miles and lulled me to a passive temper. "This is where memories come to rest," I thought. "This is where they come once they are forgotten." For then I saw that the watchers were simply memories, neither asking to be seen nor evading my sleepy surveillance. How many could there be? To whom did they belong? Questions unanswered and dreams unclaimed, for a dream is the son or daughter of a memory. Memory gives guidance to dreams, and dreams are the products of memories. Here, I should quite like to rest, when it is all over for me. Mile 93 of the pct. Here my memories could fertilize the ground from whence dreams come - and such beautiful dreams they would be