Thought Picnic: In the mists of the lost

Masts of mists

The thoughts wander marooned in the wildernesses of the mind, wells of knowledge and memory too deep to draw from that stretch to the limits of imagination only constrained by active engagement of the senses.

There have been good times and there have been bad times, they interweave and interleave with each other in recurrent clockwork motion as if there is a continued certainty that each time will have its time. The hour hand crawling through the bad times just as it races through the good times.

For he has walked the mountain tops and strode the plains, just as he has found his paths traversing the deep valleys under the gloom and dullness of life overcast by the sometimes terrifying shadow of death. Life cannot ebb out yet.

Lists of losts

Yet, it is life that he lives, not uncommon to many but precipitous and rocketing like the undulating frenetic adrenalin producing roller coaster given a name to strike fear in the hearts of those who drink lion’s blood for tea.

The day seems long, the future seems short, the hopes begin to fade and the hunger is all the more palpable because it was once three, then two and now one from dawn to dusk with the hope that ursine hibernation sets in to make it last until the next when the little left will do a little more.

For where is he a year on from that day, not much further, not much better, not much having, very much roaming and just another excavated mine of memories from which minerals are have been exhausted, he is faint in body but strong in mind and all he knows to do is bare his soul.