freewriting.

wet leaves were plastered across the mossy, black soiled ground. my feet found comfort everywhere they landed. the silence of nature is always powerful and today was no exception, or if it was, it was perhaps exceptionally powerful. i lived for these moments. i enjoyed living because of these moments. cooler air splashed on my face, waking me up a bit more. i kept walking over this land.

i had been walking for most of my life, sleeping nightly of course, and taking rests throughout the day, but they were all interruptions. each piece of land that i met was either never before seen or forgotten by me. i wondered if those were my footprints, and wondered what it meant if they were. or what it meant that i thought they were mine. there were others of course. we traveled in groups. but i didn't always see them around me. i certainly don't remember anyone else on this walk with me. but i know they were there. i'm sure of it. they confirmed it.

i suppose this is the part of my journey where i have come to a few fundamental questions. where am i going? why am i walking? why is there this land? these trees? why do the leaves fall the way they do? why do i like that? i also question these questions. what is the purpose of knowing where one is? i'd much rather know where i am than not, but i also question if it's really possible. what is the point i'm trying to make here? why does there need to be a point? i'm getting frustrated by thinking about what you think about what i think, and then telling you that it is what i think about myself. it's....a choice or one way to go about it. i wonder if it looks like this when it rains in boston.

i appreciate the contrast between rock, wood, grass and soil. nature's superficial palette. i don't see the insects from here, or the bacteria, the mycelium. but i feel them. or at least felt something when i acknowledged their existence. i hold my breath when i'm indoors but i don't notice my breath here. it just...happens.

i think i'll go over there. i've been wanting to for awhile and i feel something good, glad, when i stand there. but i've been avoiding that spot because the path is bit steeper than i like. i'm not looking to push myself like that right now. there are other visitors there, usually when the sun is out so if i don't make it up to the spot early enough, i don't get to have that moment. and that's the whole point of going there. is to have that moment. i suppose my next journey is to have that moment in public. although it can't be the same moment. it's not even the same when i'm alone on different days but at least it represents the same thing. my awareness of others, and their awareness of me undoubtedly changes the moment. i could find something in it to appreciate. it would just be a different moment. i cringe when i use "just" like that, and i use it a lot. it feels like a compromise or defeat.

there's always the trek back home. the journey out and then back. but this walk transcends it since i don't return. i can't go back in time and when my mind does, i don't want to relive it. i'd much rather see it as another point ahead that i'll pass through right now.

there's something up there that has caught my eye. an opening with some light. a portal. i'm approaching it in a bit and the light is getting brighter. the opening in the trees above have let the sun in, which came through the opening in the clouds above them. the grass is a bit drier and the dirt is clumping together on my shoes. this spot feels like heaven. it's golden (the sunlight).

i wonder what i would make of this if i didn't know what i knew. let me try again. i'm walking a bit further into the light. i look up and digest the sun, like hanuman. this feels so different from back there. i don't even recognize myself. i'm not afraid of it but i also feel weary of this freedom. or if this is what freedom feels like then i feel lightheaded. i've sat down now. i call for myself and hear echoes inside. in my mind's eye i see a pitch black room with a small stream of light coming from above. it's less of a room and more of a space. the feeling i got when i sat down on the stone bench in the chicago institute of arts, staring at an impressionist painting. the artist is not there but their art echoes something back at me. what do i make of what i feel when i look at what you've made. which one of us caused this feeling. who is responsible for it. i think it has to be me. i've felt this elsewhere, looking at different pieces of art. so it can't be you. but in this moment it is both of us who are involved. it represents something different even though it feels the same. even if slightly so.

i wonder if this walk is inside that pitch black space and my eyes are closed. i keep them closed. and i know they are closed. the fear of freedom will creep in when i open them. much like a cold shower.