This morning, I am certain the earth pulled me down more strongly, as though gravity needed to reassert itself, having lost someone in its grip to the virus, a common complaint as we stumble through still another year.
I fought it off course, the birds in the wetland at once admiring my effort and laughing at what they knew would ultimately be a futile gesture.
You belong to the earth, they said, you arose from it, are bound to it and it is a matter of time before it reclaims you as it does with all.
It was easier, they added, in ancient days, when the gods truly cared, for then you need only sufficiently irritate them before they would sever your earthy bonds to serve eternity in a celestial prison.
The one thing that will drive him crazy is a sign with a star, or square, or anything that says “You Are Here.” The one place he has never been, will never be, is standing on a map. He admits he may be nearby, but here is out of the question. He’s never really sure where he is, but he is always here, even if no one else can be. He would like to go there sometime, but he knows that even if he makes the journey when he arrives he will be still be exactly here, so why waste the effort.