Paths are forged, by whom we do not know: etched into the collective psyche as thought grooves, as windows to perception, as perspectives necessary for experience. The resulting landscape changes so slowly that we don’t notice much of it. We can’t see those paths, for they are what makes our being in time possible to begin with and are therefore transparent. Once in a while, however, they move somewhat to the forefront.
Your writing is always artful and elegant and points towards profound possibilities, as exemplified in this post. You tapped into a vision that is intangible and practically indefinable, yet you managed to articulate it somehow. Well done!
'Like that abandoned gas station in a village lost in a dream, conjuring up images of youth gangs once hanging around talking cars and racing each other.' I had to read this 4 times before I realised that the cars weren't talking. Not sure what that says about your prose or about me.
Beautiful. Prose poetry gesturing towards truths as yet intangible and fugitive. Thank you.
Your writing is always artful and elegant and points towards profound possibilities, as exemplified in this post. You tapped into a vision that is intangible and practically indefinable, yet you managed to articulate it somehow. Well done!
'Like that abandoned gas station in a village lost in a dream, conjuring up images of youth gangs once hanging around talking cars and racing each other.' I had to read this 4 times before I realised that the cars weren't talking. Not sure what that says about your prose or about me.