Description
We never know everything, nor will we ever be aware of everything, yet sometimes we think we can, perhaps because nothing at those times can fill our soul, our conscience, our mind, or whatever name this being that makes us human may be given.
I look from the highest point of the slope at a gently moving stream, at leaden drops of water, and I imagine, almost unreasonably, that each drop might return to its origin if I could dive naked into it, into the years of my childhood, if I could hold in my hand now a long, wet pole or two jingling oars from a bygone era, and propel forward, across the smooth surface of the water, a wooden boat that reaches the very edge of a dream—a being that was once myself, but which I left there, crashing against the shore, somewhere in time.
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