When I wake, the skies are overcast, the Sunday morning streets dull with stasis. I lace my sneakers before my body really wakes, make my way up a sleeping Main Street, turn right on the country road, and begin to run the undulating landscape on autopilot. The rain starts right at the halfway mark, and picks up steadily as I make my way back, my legs finally awake and the fresh breeze beating its way into my lungs. What a gift a short moment's peace can be, a quiet communion with wildflowers and Sunday morning birdsong. What a gift the slight reprieve of ignorance.
During a break in the rain, we make our way down winding roads to the orchards, spend a timeless hour weaving through blackberry brambles and staining our fingers with just-ripened jewels. The children's baskets never fill up, but their bellies do. I leave him voice messages in the quiet maze, and wonder if the truth isn't more that I leave them for myself. Remember this. You think perhaps the time has come to stop annexing your fantasies to others' lives. Following others' streams grows old, as you do.
You think perhaps the time has come to sow your own seeds, build the brambles of your own dreams. You think perhaps you are your own person, and since no one else can give it, you owe yourself the life that is yours.
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