My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near..
I am somewhere in those woods, lovely, dark and deep, fascinated by them. There is no farmhouse anywhere in sight and somewhere inside I am wondering thatthat what is the significance of these woods, of their beauty in all its vivid, vibrant, varying shades in the miles I am going to cover before I sleep? Am I at a pitstop? Is it like one of those experiences in life which are so brief, without any precedence and without a trail behind that they could as well have been a dream, a false memory?
What if this is what life is going to be like.. a long tedious journey with a few pitstops thrown in between? Conversely, what if life is in these little pitstops scattered on the continuum of long tedious journeys?
Since I don't have an answer yet and since the probability could be 50-50, I am in no position to disrespect either the pitstops or the tedious journeys... and therefore, those little digressions, those little trails followed perpendicular to the highway are every bit as important as the highway..
2 comments:
if the continuum itself is a continuum of millions of microscopic pitstops which we wont remember in the long run, could it be that each of these distinct pitstops will make the highway worth traveling?
i dont know if pitstops are good too. If the highway is just a collection of pitstops arranged in some random order then doesn't that blur the line between the pitstops and the highway? And if there infact is no line then one can neither place hope in the pitstops nor the highway. Conversely, there must be hope in both.
Post a Comment