Volumes.

We traverse these canyons, these peaks and valleys of existence with not so much as a clue to begin with but then something greater than that, some intrinsic knowledge of where we are going imbedded in our DNA from before our birth yet still a mystery but perhaps for glimpses. What are these places, the cities, the towns, the countryside, a rolling landscape of destinations that aren’t and are, depending on who you are? Who are you?
What do we want with these words?

We bend them, shape them, the malleable metal of our language and we cast them out like seeds. Where is our thought for where the wind will take them? We edit ourselves. We correct. We talk of great things that we would do from behind walls so high we needn’t ever worry about what might really be on the other side of them. Are we gutless wonders all and each, every day but getting up and moving forward, how shall we define our lives? By the notions of how others would have us live? Or on our own terms? Having learned the ways and means of consequence, walking close enough to the edge to have looked over it, we be quiet. We understand.

Let us not disturb the calm surface of the water lest we run the risk of learning something about mastering its depth.