Come To; One must Come To My dearest Reader.
Taking The Long Walk: The Lost Refuge Art Of Solitary Walking; To Settle An Unsettled Mind — Goodness And Wellness — Serial №3
A Dramatic Philosophical Telling-tale Of When The Heart & Mind Succumbs Ill, And Whereto Resettle Them — Viva The Unordinary Path of Stark, Revealing Natures To Aid The Healing
To be knackered under the well-worn boot is far more amiable than to be knackered under the needless toiling of a heart belabored with woe and much aches.
To be turned under the ailing tree beneath an ochre sun — Oh, how heavenly for one to seek such things, seemingly so mild to war and the raging batons all around, yet it is the humbling nature of which it pleasures one by is the reason why it is being sought.
But all for a mere moment, never getting too fat on its revealing emotion for you — tucked out there, by the croft of the worn boot, and the tapering edge of a well-worn thigh, acting wisely, to the kale horn calling — You there, and I over here, beloved to the nestling tune of a walk done solitarily, momentarily; they’ll learn the habits of which they’ll learn by the fashioning of their hardy cloth, but who sews such cloth is the matter to be called upon.
Needle be for the chucks and scratches done to a once pristine cloth that clothes the naked body that abodes you gracefully. Stretch well in your newly fangled outfit, Those blue-cropped pants of mine say Hullo over a distance for a reason: You spotting me from afar, those blues, and I to spot you; ever alone in our decision to heal the weal and simmering wound, yet, never too far out of sight of another who hedges such heedless paths; ease it well, don’t be losing that worried mind of yours more — Go to the fine spirit of pursuing more by the careful persuasion done by the body to the mind, as a sure & fine notation for change;
After such bouts of rutting stagnation, take that sign to get off your tush from that comfy chair, and make a break away from the housing despair, Red and beholden, fancies the morning’s chilled fresh air, and go! Just that, Go! Naught too confounded and verbose, just Go. Be a ranger, be that hunter, be that journeyman who heeds the call for change — a change most profound on the heart in silence, and to the ailing mind who has needlessly foreborne this burden for too long. Go, and Go my beauty — Go!
Long turns the luck, evermore the a-cursing malady upturns the heart; such are the bouts of upheaval, it wishes despair upon you,
There are you — you in your salutary ways of independence by the manner of your strolling over thorn and harsh brackets, to the beast of beacon, gleaming on your button face; Wildly to smile, twice to charm the grin that cherishes a feline’s mirth and faith to fate — Seeing all to all, with you there in the flesh, in the outfit of rainbows by mildewing circumstances of the heart. The aperture of your back and the posture of your moving bum deliver to the passer-by the stern image of someone in their own desire for soundness and stern prudence!
Arms wide, and waves tall, isn’t the image so seemed and winsome — arming for fine words, I hear you calling;
So seemingly it seems to be — Quip, listen up, look over there, that fine lady of fit torques and rubbing buttocks of fastening pace to unknown motives, it so is easy to catch that — the sex and striding pride — isn’t it so perfidious to gather that so easily, but the news is ill — an ill-begotten guess is as good as knowing naught, to begin with; that poor lass is suffering, yet you shan’t see, neither will see allow or want to — it is her passage she is on, strolling thru’ that is the name of the game, but none to you, but the waging done unto herself.
The daring of caring for ourselves is that jumbled dance we must begin and be alone to; doesn’t mean solitude is all that is needed, but space is needed alone, and in times suiting, it is best to be so.
That is the image portrayed to a strange, seeing it with a mild concern but naught else more to it — to you now, what may be being undertaken is the becoming of, the transmutation from the battered soul from harsh shocks to a forbearing soul that can understand.
Let me be the Sightseer that I am, and by the stories I teach, may we go down that second avenue of reflection over the past once lived.
As Monday bears you this fruit, the idea of walking for a prolonged bout is but a weekend away now; if Philip down the local imbibing office doesn’t tactfully beckon you away to his sudden parties he often throws, though the water wastage he thus ensues, a throe would rather be more appropriate; but this Canvas of the Just-Tomorrows is always there, abiding whatever decision, ill or not, utterly indifferent to what is chosen.
Thereby the desire could be suited: To possess a lionized Will, to have that hotspur to eagerly venture, vanish, and scarper down a forlorn and emptying path — away from troublesome fun-seekers, especially! Yet, the heart is hardly ever daunted by such things if it has been slacked awfully with the tender heartbreak ruminations of last night’s call, and the daily rebirthing thru’ the early morn, to broach you deep aches.
Recompense, to the idol reactors to your hurt, that would blissfully fruitful yet rarely arrive, so decide for yourself not to play by the play of this middling amble.
Take yourself a-striding, like the tuneful bashing of Fats Waller’s dashing demands, why not Go! Go down that path, make it not final, but smote the idea of remaining in the languishing despair, or stalling grief.
Take yourself, even gently along the path where carthorses and once-arising ministers strode. Stride it now, and stride it at the pace you can so Muster in yourself. Naught can be taught by force but the swift affinity to evade what has been pressed too harshly.
See this woman, nude as she is, surrounded by the Christian Cross and the skull of a long-since mature passer. See the yellowing done by the chemical abides of the skilled art of natural philosophy and the wormy earth that holds itself dear to all flesh, which shall pass in due time.
Her expression, the nudity of her breasts, the slacking action of her thighs, with a background vast yet so desolate, similar in notion, I feel to Mona’s backing. Tuppled, weak hues and a strong tree in the midground.
The supple green washed-hues of the classical dues. Oh, how I soaked myself in the scapes of often subduing sights — even the humble postbox, can fork back the overly-eager mind; sometimes the mind only needs to resettle itself by a mere boring sight or item.
Laugh at even, the petty jest to snap the heart back into the present set of circumstances you find, and what we find is you Jazzing away down a sandy path — where can this grit get one when affronted vectors have been diminished?
Take this time in this intermission between responsibilities and loyalties, to make clear what the worth is of something by the usage of space — take it back to what remains after stripping back from all Façades and nonsensical things — by that distance stood away, you begin to understand how a mountain is to be judged by the climber to be climbable.
But that is the nature of the Solitary Walker — a wising intermission if you see my play to you.
Now I see you down by the riverside, strolling through the offerings of Spring, Summer, and Fall. Winter be damned, I may so you springing your step in the midst of snowstorms, though I don’t recommend it without the sternest of overcoats—see me once again in the thick whiteout, in a deep blue coat, waving merrily though the doubts for speech are firm, for the lips aren’t the best reactors for such Climes.
Dizzying may it be, come what, come may be one walker’s spirit —throughout a haze, the eyes cannot help to assemble a sense of charm, even in the most beguiling of moments;
See that man, shaded in the sun’s basing heat, the waves distorting his outline, what do you remain to see? — who could he possibly be, who could I possibly be to him but a similar refraction of light, made apparent by a Gas remaining in the form of a star we call The Sun. Beginning all billions of years ago, merely to serve the adopting happenstance to beguile a conscious mind, now only willing itself to needless hurt and confusion. ‘tis the way of our living —chance, that is the living spirit.
Wave your flag, wave yourself truly as you belabor yourself to move ever on, yet never forgetting — as the undercurrent to the stride is to contemplate, by the time you reach this mark in this piece, you may realize that yourself without me telling, but showing you — for what is a wound if it is never learned from on the how it came to be sewn to flesh, and if the wound is deeply true, the mind also. A wound there is one thing, a wound repeated on the same spot is another silent scorn.
Return when you will, abandon responsibility but not reaction, even for a time; though the stable job of keeping yourself true to your own mechanics will reveal itself, almost like an unrevealing thread of an endless length, slowly you will find more particulars of the fabric, but perhaps thankfully, you shall never find the end of the spool.
And returning when you will, but be disappointed at heart if the uneasiness of your current circumstance doesn’t seem to be eased by your ramblings — go and rest now, interlocked to you and your particulars will be the age of healing, giving yourself to that consent of process, slowly the form of you thereafter will begin to reveal itself.
However maddening the twists may so become, the quizzical moments, marked by feverish brows and queasy stomachs, the forbearance of one's own peculiar hurting tendencies decides, you must abide by that becoming of health renewed — we are all woven in the times of uncertainty, uncoupled, unbounded, that is what such things meld a person out of comfort unto a new plain, where you begin to understand, and deeply, I hope you do; By all the tricks and masteries of the heart and mind, nothing can prepare you for the uncertain bout, rather it is how you make use of the time thereafter.
ONE LAST REPOSE —
One more time, taking this repose as our conclusion before an enlarging piece arrives next, on the Fourth of our summing Serial. Ours? — always, as you read what I counter-weld altogether. A perfect union, unlikely for a swift divorce. I quip as a Doctor without a faire-humorous bone is no healer of hidden walls.
Walls will remain, no matter how far one may gather themselves to be — this travel is but a transmuting medium from one idea to the next; one form to another.
Why walk when the easier thing to do is stagnant? There you are, you just asked yourself that question, now pursue it with the Why — Why stagnant, why do I remain to infatuate the shape of my body to the density of my couch? Why — Why—Why. Like the endless questioning of a child. Be so inquiring if the livable wages itself to a disappointing heart, figure out what is really keeping you there and hence.
Now, as the Doctor says, Take yourself here, by the Phrasing phases of this refined Tune:
Not normally do I offer such interjections, but when have I ever declared doing things in my way by the line and normal wines?
Music, the unclothed nerves of our trepidations and living — a thread, a precious thing; though clothed in sentiment by the chosen foam of its style.
Jazzers —Rockers — Aliens…
But I shall save and serve you well by keeping you from another interlude of my Seer’s stories. Oh, but I do luv to guise it subtly if the need not be asking — ah, Brilliant!
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