Solace

The Journey is drawing to a close. The petite voyage will become a memory, every day becoming ever more petite. It will become myth, it'll transmute into stories, where I was at one point in the Now and in everything, though already I feel it as a future memory, the Now fading away, all there being is Immediate Past. And like everything else for me, no surprise, it's getting boring, getting old, change has its expiration date, it is finite, it yearns renewal, replenishment. Am I now ready to enjoy some Deliberate Stillness, a De-Languishing? Already the prospects of stillness scare me. Already do I see myself longing for stillness, only to out of the blue, reaching its overdose, and the only shop being abandonment again, burn all the bridges once more, a graveyard of expectations of me. • I am alone, I am a statue, I fuse with the marble around me, I am the world's mirror image, I phase through all and take whatever shape it desires. Where am I? In the night, in a well. I'll come out, it was cozy, but I'm too curious, I want to see the light. But first, I'll sleep just once more...