Harshness 30/06/2017

I'm standing in front of a river, a free flowing, powerful stream. I hear it roar in my ears, I can feel its pure energy piercing my spirit. Its natural force makes me pale in comparison. Its age, carved into the layers of the earth for thousands upon thousands of years makes my entire existence seem puny, seem like a flower in the wind. And maybe that's the key?

I stand before awe inspiring life and think about death, I think about the human cycles and how we will all cease to exist and how in a few hundred years, no one will ever remember you. I look into the swirling, into the bubbly and into the foam and I feel it pulling through the ages, through the generations. I feel a stronger connection to the wild waters than to all what our modern lives have to offer. I look deep beneath its surface and I see, not what Narcissus saw, but a much truer beauty than one's perishable face.

I stand before the river, wondering how to get across, wondering how to get back to where I once was somebody, before I met my nobody. Was this really the way I had come? Was it really this I set out to look for?

I wanted to stand before the river, thinking for ages about the ebb and flow and tides and highs and lows and days and nights of life and death. I wanted to stand there forever, until my feet struck roots and I was once more united with the dirt. I wanted to stand there, eternally lost in the swirls, watching nature and life wash over me and strip me away, layer after layer.

Now what does this all mean, doctor?

Don't be a stranger! Loves