A park bench, behind a stack of pipes, which my girlfriend tells me, are used for phone cables. The smoke from a cigarette, desperately trying to remain coherent and disciplined, but blown every which way by the wind. A cow, mainly black with white patches, or is it mainly white but mostly covered in black? The graying sky, promising rain in a few moments. Large orange flowers, whose name I cannot recall (is it tesu?), some decaying, some waiting to decay, lying around on the ground. Three or four shrines, built by the believers, scattered around in a disorganized manner, around the clearing.
Thoughts, many and incoherent, rushing through my brain, each vying for attention. An urge to write and keep on writing until the rain forces me away. A wish to see things resolved. But desperation as the rain threatens to wipe out, wash away the efforts of a confused mind.
Perhaps it would be wise to keep it away and pray for a dry day when Gods pleasure doesn’t make a mockery of mans desperation.
‘Tis amazing how a little rain can be such an irritant when one wishes to be a certain way. God smiles, allowing a few more instants of dryness, perhaps telling the foolish mortal that this is not time given to write, but time given to put away pen and paper, gather up belongings and head for cover. But the mortal is adamant. He assumes he is invincible, and so is his ink. He remains where he was, as if daring God to do his worst. Amusing, these mortals. They seem to enjoy being reminded of their inadequacies. A warning gust of wind. For an instant the mortal is afraid. What if people reading this laugh at him. But then, o one asked him to display his writings. But the mortal is vain. He wishes to be applauded. He feels he can take a little rejection. A small risk compared to the glowing feeling of accomplishment he expects when he is rewarded with the accolades of other mortals, all of whom are playing the same foolhardy game of hide and seek with themselves. The flow of writing takes the mortal on and on away from where he started. Into the narrow alleyways of his own mind where he dare not tread for fear of being confronted with a mirror, more clear and honest than any other. The mortal does not fear God for he knows that God is his own creation. But he fears himself because after all God created him. This recursive relationship is confusing. But the mortal believes steadfastly that he knows it all. This supreme confidence, this fantastic disdain is perhaps what makes him mortal. But the mortal does not care. He continues to explore further and further into the reaches of his conscious until with a fatal finality, the phone rings.
And with that ends another journey with no record left except a few squiggles on a damp piece of paper.