Venturaeque Hiemis

“How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?” ~ Dr. Seuss

Forty-four weeks? Hard to believe. Time is an artificial construct, an illusion. The past is but a ghost; the future, a dream; only the here and now is real, but even that is suspect.

This morning’s misty rain, cold and chilling, awakened an old ghost. Brian, Brent, and I were out at the Mississinewa Reservoir. We’d parked on Highway 13 just past Somerset Bridge and hiked down to the tiny little limestone cave that the river had carved out there.

We built a fire, collecting firewood from the nearby forest and driftwood that had washed up along the bank, drying in the late autumn sun.

rain

Winter was coming, and we sat and talked into the night, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap wine, the skeletal trees casting eerie shadows across the drained landscape as a chilling mist fell on us.

The world was deadly serious, but we were still summer knights,  in our teens, but just by a hair, staving off the approach of winter with the conceit of youth as our shield.

I sometimes think that, despite youthful indiscretions, we were wiser then than in our later years. We certainly had a purer sense of how the world should work, before reality forced us to accept that the world is what it is.

Oh, sure, you can shape the world and make of it what you will, but in the end, everything crumbles just the same. We all become dust. And that’s alright. There’s the truth you’ve been looking for all your life.

Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end.

cbsnoopy

.:.

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