I knew a man who felt he was a failure. He should have made a mark by now and here he was mid thirties, paying off his loans, chafing at his 9 to 5. He scorned stability like so much smut. Setting out to capture lost opportunity, hunter in a wild savanna, he thrashed through humans as through tall grasses, forgetting us as easily.
In a marshland near here, the cattails form a wide and tranquil unanimity in spring. You follow the wood walk to it's center to be swallowed up in a throaty lushness. By December, the boardwalk and walker are exposed, the stalks flattened in patterned chaos. Air marked by your breath echoes a silence only birds and distant cars embellish and you wonder at the choices of a lifetime.
The sameness of a stable life can groan against a writer's pure, clear sight and yet, one is not predictable, the other free. Chaos and serenity inhabit a bold anticipation, partners yearning for their opposites in timeworn visceral abandon.
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