Inclines
I set out.
They are just foothills to a mountain range. all lesser parts of a grander whole. / I set my eyes upon them, ponder the weather, and set myself a goal.
As I walk, I take in the breeze, welcoming the land as it begins to roll. / The gentle topography provides rhythm for some meditative evaluation of the soul.
And I walk.
Over the hours, however, these bumps feel more monumental, though I wish not to aggrandize. / No, I do not want to waste my energies, for I hardly worship them as shrines.
Though my knees are prone to give, my feet work just fine. / But it’s not that these hills are insurmountable, it’s just that I’m running out of time.
I continue as far as I can.
My journey has an end date, though I will never be able to write it down. / Still, I keep a journal, to document the colours of each bird I see, each small town.
I climb the slopes because, in a way, I have to, to keep my head above water lest I drown. / My view - were it not for the inclines, I’d have no adjectives in my life, just simple nouns.
