As the fog dissipated, the stone became clear and in writing it affirmed. Neither one wrong, one wanted solitude a little longer. It wasn’t for specific views, known feelings, or a different medium under their foot. It was the art of isolation they longed for, though there weren’t words for it, because it wasn’t a conscious thought then… it was the art of isolation and what it could unfold into if given the time.
The stone sits, the paths unwind into the wood… and maybe they go further still.
How is it human nature is so quick to want a hard line for things? To identify them as one, then place them into a box neatly, not to be touched, moved, re-colored, hit, or added to? I find myself spending so much time, by default, shoving things into a definition of what I have seen them mean to be… but then, I spend more time hearing this deeper voice that has spun up from tension in the act… it asks the question, why are we trying to say this is the ONLY truth? Can not more than one exist at the same time?