Driven By Fantasy

(Not as originally titled; sprung from fragments begun in the first quarter of June -- The Z-Man, June 8th, 2024)

I am struggling for the impetus to write. It may be that I am caught between methods of delivery, wherein my older writing was bloated with adverbs and things of that nature. Or that I have lost confidence in free writing, fallen victim to a-mass-ed structure.

I feel bereft of actualization. I remain in lack of the appropriate leverage between the reality of work and toil, and the possibility of a grander and more peaceful life, all anchored demands considered. Admittedly, it is the recent seizure of my car which has, perhaps "by proxy", driven these words your way. Not that they have arisen out of that experience, explicitly; they are simply a result of my pseudo-containment here, amidst these fleeting walls.

Crossing At Dusk: Terror Comes Home

Then came the evening of June 4th. Walking back from the beach, I was left with little choice but to backtrack: something had crossed my path, one- to two-hundred yards ahead. It had emerged from the waning gloom, extending forth from a nearby path, its sawhorse figure intersecting my route with unnerving ease, and intrinsic warning.

Yet, my resolve remained, for my current path was the general and ideal return. Even as the burden of growing hesitancy and deliberation enflamed as I marched on.

Thus had I closed somewhere between a half and three-quarters of the distance to the marked ground before assessment got the better of me, and the very real potential for consequences in lieu of my insistence became crystalline. What was it exactly that I had seen? Had I not a predisposition to beliefs--to the tune of pop phenomena, perhaps--that what I had seen was supernatural? Had I not a soft spot for symbolism, and for the unfolding of such a divinity into the flesh, regardless of its era of arrival? There was certainly no lack of symbolism on my trip...though that was hardly a special circumstance. Density of such visions aside.

Naturally, my penchant for the macabre had materialized itself, clear before my eyes. Even if distance and darkness had wholly muddled the critical, defining features of my wanton companion;

or companions.

The Rise and Fall of Jubilance

Whatever the reality had been, though, my stop-in at Walmart an hour or so later had been a more open, accepting one.

Now

In words such as Arnold so eloquently actions: I am back.

Naturally, the time has come to return...to the scene of the crime. Once I finish my breakfast, I will set off once more down the Canal, eager to walk and to explore: wherever my plans shall take me.

*

*

And Then...

It may have been there; Where a deer or other animal had come through on their way; Where some brethren of the lesser known had slunk from the shadows for its own innumerable course, or unthinkable recourse.

It may have been something.

It may have been nothing.

The mind has much to learn. So Nature deems it so.

Resolution Beckons

Yet, is it not a magical place? Where cycles of life intersect, and the elements take hold. Where darkness and fear hold court to the unexpected. Where courses infringe upon the airs of diplomacy, and the fervor of alien civilizations bridges the gaps. Where secrets, unspoken, materialize. Where inspiration arises...unbidden by blood.

The winged things that ride the breeze, sounding through the shuffling leaves, set upon these sentinel trees, tangent to my rooted wheels, and un-glassed window's frame conceals,

as through the precipice, our World congeals;

the World as seen through my own eyes;

the World whose truth is our disguise;

the World whose secrets we surmise,

and through opinions:

so we yearn;

so we despise;