Trips Through Images

I saw the leaves of my better rot and fall to the ground in autumn. They were all laying on the ground; everything around them shook when you looked at them from far away. I don't know why. The entire field itself was silent it seemed, and all the wind had stopped blowing. It made me feel as if I were dead, as if everything were dead and there was nothing that I could do to revive it, to make them all stand up again and dance, sing, laugh like they used to. No, everything had fallen on the ground and it wasn't going to get back up again. Maybe things like that are meant to be repressed or forgotten, and maybe all of our ancestors are better forgotten for the sake of moving on and growing old yourself, being forgotten yourself.

I feel as though I keep remaining stuck in a world that keeps moving on. I can only see outlines of people, as if silhouettes in foggy rain.

It's February and the water is cold, the air is cold, and peoples faces seem to blur until you can't tell if they're feeling anything. It's been months, or years. Every day another one comes and goes, thoughts passing casually as if people through a mostly unused alleyway. Everything seems cold and empty, as if the inner warmth of the earth were slowly waning away into nothingness. Where does consciousness take us anyway?

If life has a path to it, then I'm in the Wilderness.