Drifting

Some days it could be nice to examine the thinking, other days it would be better to walk out of the apartment, out into the streets, and start looking at people and finding a nice park or a coffee shop. Anywhere with some energy, a place to forget yourself and float like an old wooden sailboat into the seas. I walked slowly on the sidewalk and noticed the trees on the left hand side, lined up and separating the cars from the walking path on asphalt. I felt the foot touching, rolling, then slightly kicking off from the ground. Then repeat. The jacket was open. I walked a few more steps, and then stopped.
It was like walking as a little child, in a brief moment, like the body remembered something from a few decades before, and I felt a changing mood. Like liquid on a surface, gliding from one side to the other. At the end of the street there was a park, an old park with big oak trees and a wide pond in the middle. I kept walking as the street morphed into a scenery of a desert, and then of a forest. I was dreaming. There was a scratching sound, and I opened my eyes. Lying in bed. In a dimly lit room. The morning light hiding behind the curtains. And on the night stand table, a book, a cup, and a lamp. I briefly closed my eyes and tried to imagine the street I had been walking through. Was it an old vacation, or something from a movie, or just the imagination? It was partly recognizable but then it dissolved again. And the morning light started to seep into the room on the side of the curtains. A new day. And a busy day. I stretched lying and then sat up. Then slowly leaned back into the bed. No need to rush yet. There is still time.
Half an hour later I was sitting by the table having breakfast, already showered and dressed. A glass of juice, and a toast.

Evening Walk

He walked down to the river, and felt a different kind of exhaustion than before. But he knew it would be better, soon. The trees, and the water, always had a the calming effect of nature, and of peace.
There had been too many emotions for a while. But it would soon change. He was searching back to the normal habits, and a different kind of stability in the habits.
The sound of the river suddenly became more clear. And then, the slight breeze, and the green color on the leaves. He slowed down his step. And then it started to feel more like before. It connected him to the many walks along the same paths in the last few years. It was a feeling of home.
It would soon be dark, and not so many people were walking there yet. Maybe they would come later, it was often hard to tell. But he moved slightly closer to the water as he walked, and then, he felt the soft grass under his shoes. New memories started to float towards him. And he knew that it would balance the mood.

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.