“WHERE DID ALL THE CREATIVITY RUN OFF TO?” shouted the man at the top of the mountain. He was scanning the plains below, questioning where they had been or where they were going to. None of them answered, of course. “I worry I wonder, I wonder I worry” he muttered to himself. Sauntering amongst the brush (because it was summer and the Rocky Mountains were immersed in leaves and pine needles), his shoes swayed, he kicked around an old tin can. Where had everything gone? The man he’d started climbing with had gone, died, left, loved. Who knew. The man couldn’t think any longer; there was no challenge, he’d fallen into the lazy habit of thought, pure, foreboding, unforgiving thought, and for the remainder of his life, he was doomed to think. The ethereal airs told me so.
“WATCH ME WATCH ME WATCH ME”
“waaaatch waaatccch waaach mee mee miiiiiiiii” echoed the moonlight, the canopy of a sky, the plains, the Earth.
No comments:
Post a Comment