Faced with prospects of a good life enlivened with Contentment here on earth, so long as the proper choices are made, based on profound philosophies and the teachings of those who have long and deep understanding, I stared at the following question with some level just shy of agony: to read a book inside (all of spirit and mind contained within the text), with the sun and the flower and the tree right there, or to go for a walk. One must commit something. An eye fixed upon a star and eventually you are rewarded, arrive safely and always in time. Many have reminded me of this but Dante was the latest. I knew it before he showed up, however, given my aboriginal nature and my relation to soil and sky. Then I was perplexed. I could be one or the other on a given day, my last in life. For an hour, both could not suffice. The day before yesterday I chose the book and from sunup until down I read and dreamed and lived within some other world, carried by Emily’s dinghy, seated in her corner room, my body pained and withered. Yesterday I chose the walk, through the live oak and along the living creek, and once an inhalation of earth gave song and courage to my heart. I did not read the poem on my list; I gazed at it, drifting there on a table. Today I sat between the two, immobile. The fiery god stationed and we here spun in front of it. Could not open the words; would not walk without firm choice; in darkness with no time left I curled lost to my side.
