Evening Walk

It was always the same place, on the evening walk, when the same thoughts came back to him. The same reflections, the same areas of life to be evaluated, or topics to ponder about. Sometimes it could be the bigger issues in life, or sometimes the smaller everyday questions of spending your time on the right things, for yourself and for others, and for the future. Like little stations along the path, to build and expand on something he had thought the day before, and in a long string of days and walks, creating a longer and coherent reflection and learning about something in life, that might be useful one day. And then, there was always the sound and seeing the river. It softened the brain, and released the patterns of thinking, making them more fluid.
This afternoon was a more quiet one. A feeling of being content, and of some new wheels being set into motion. There seemed to be a balance over time, over the months or over the years, between the busy life and the slow life. He should have known by now that it always would sort itself out, but it was probably a part of the process. That new things rarely emerged without a tiny sense of desperation or despair. Maybe it was a necessary trigger, from mother nature. But the recognition was usually the same. He’d been here hundreds of times before. And it always tipped over, into something new. Over and over. A million times.



She was looking out of the window. Rain drops. The sound made an echo deep within her, like water falling into a stone cellar and splashing against the floor. She was sick of this.
It used to be a nice sound, the drops against the window, but not this afternoon. It felt like a prison.

A New Book

Back along the river, at the last day of the week, his mind felt empty again. Strangely enough, as so much had happened just in a few days, and he was learning and working on some new things that would probably be very useful later that summer. But the emotions were a bit blocked, in a good way. So he walked quickly, got back home, made a warm cup of tea, and sat down in his favorite chair with a new book. It was by a new author he had discovered by coincidence in the book store a few days ago, as he was walking out of the shop but a cover suddenly caught his attention, and he walked over to the book shelf to have a closer look.
And as he opened up a random page, the sentences quickly drew him in, and the emotion behind them felt firm and balanced, and made him want to read more. The woman at the counter had smiled and told him: “That is a really good book. A new author.”
He said: “Thank you,” and when he got home he put the book on the small reading table next to his chair in the corner, next to the window and the book shelves in the living room.
He started reading and was drawn into the story again, just like the first time. A story of two old men meeting at the end of their lives in a sunny square, and their perspectives were contrasting between a practical type and a more introverted type, with a little hint of the special friendship and relationship which that created. It was by a new author, but it felt like he had written some books before, there was something in the tone that was different from most first time books. And he kept reading for a while, before taking the first little sip of tea.