Whatever will be, will be

  

The future’s not ours.

Visceral. 

That’s how I feel when I walk alone. Letting songs run through my mind like they have a thousand times by headphones. Old stories my mind doesn’t like to let go of. Little snippets of him, that time, when I. 

As soon as you try to put it in words, you’ve defined it. 

When you sleep amongst the trees, it’s like their roots reach beneath you, absorbing your sweat and tears. You suck in the clean air trickling from their droopy leaves. Feeding. Giving and recieving. If I could tell you how special this is, the process, I’ve already ruined its beautiful mystery.

Does it feel good? Just like it should?

It’s always happening right now. Everything you could think of. Every single thing. I imagine all of the possibilities, and then I’m brought back to the trees. They speak to me, they point at things. They frown, they tease. The million times I’ve wished I’d had a hand to hold, I let that go, I hold my own. 

If I slip, it’s not your fault, it is my own. 

I see slugs, I kick up rocks along the rainy spraying coast. Walking for hours through marsh lands. I wonder what the term, “sound mind,” really means and then I end up on the street. This isn’t where I planned the path would end and my heart skips a beat. A woman’s house, isolated in Courtenay, advertising reiki. 

Come back, the Spirits beg, they scream at times to me. 

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