Cobblestone

Here I am, treading upon the cobblestone of London. One of many streets, narrow and suffocating at one time, and eerily sparse at another. The street knows not the many that have passed over in their bustle, they know not of its grandeur, of the miracle of invention and ingenuity that led to its existence, of the worn and calloused hands that lay it down originally, brick by brick, in persevering spirit, only the result; and the sight and sound taken for granted.

            For there is no time to stop in this city, no time but for the leisurely class, for the pedants and philosophers, for drunken philanderers gifting their bile in return for its fortuitous foundation under their feet. No time for anyone but those with nothing waiting in their day, in ceaseless pondering and wasted virility, in inevitable regret that does not rouse one to walk once more, beset on a new path and more lofty priorities. One’s history may come to pass in his consciousness, roused by the most minute or unrelated of reminders. Reflection, rumination, and the fine distinction between them so that they may not become homogenous once more. After all, the times upon which I stare at this ground may appear once more in the realm of recollection when trial and tribulation enter again.

            When I need remind myself of this futility, when I need remind myself of this necessity to drink in the sights of the oft considered mundane. To smell the pleasant perfumes of smog and baker’s bread alike, to find in the minute and trivial some great revelation, some epiphany or impulse that makes my heart flutter and raise itself in joy as my body tingles with its realization. That amongst this bustle and noise, amongst this un-empathetic populace racing around, there is no resentment in me, no call or command I need give to them. As in their streams of thought and sensation, in their reflection and rumination, they may return to where I stand, staring; transfixed. If only for a moment any one of them may return, if only for a blink of time in the vast cosmos they may see this world under their feet. This collection of the earth deliberately situated, with no deliberation of its own. O, how my heart would flutter without the sharp downfall of strife and stresses if I could return at a whim to the world of cobblestone, without desire or desperation, without want or need of lofty priority, without want or need of it as a wasteful crutch of convalescence, merely as another layer of this vast earth and beyond.

            The vast earth and beyond that I am so privileged to  comprehend, so gifted and fortuitous to chew the smallest morsel of, to spit out or not savor, to have taste linger, to let the mouth water at the thought of another presently unimaginable facet of being. Possibility with the morning sun and dark caverns of my own head alike, to learn and be ground into dust once more; this certainty and contentment, this bed of routine I return to after a day decides to dole out a slight once more, this restless reflection, rumination, nostalgia of the simpler times unburdened as they seem, by the new facets of life we call experience. To teach and preach to thyself and thy neighbor, and to thy friends, sons, daughters, to strangers I need not call or command, this endless possibility, this small shred of sight mine eyes lay upon me, this profound cosmos I will never take in. To it we shall return, and those that stare transfixed, those that have not considered living, those that excuse and mistreat, those are all of us at one time or another, those are not to be judged lest we judge ourselves; lest we turn to flagellation in the name of false fleeting desire, of stagnation and nostalgia, of rumination and reflection. To each morning you shall look, and rejoice, as shall I, as shall I.

            And so shall neither us not burden nor rest indefinite, for needlessly do we all dismay. When time finds it fit to test, and we do not rise over that mountain today, it is folly to fail tomorrow to scale it, it is folly to not say I may one day find no need of this peak, and may find the strength to look to another. Do not take on a burden my friends, nor should one rest, for one’s peak is waiting whether we may divert our eyes to the trees or tender grasses to lie. And here I say I wouldn’t preach! To choose is thy right, no matter where ye lay or ponder or pounce or climb or scamper or yield or sprint, thy steps are thy own, thy will is thy destiny, and so never call upon certainty, nor wish or want, nor find your rocky slopes to be defeat. For whatever we may restrict, for whatever we may search for or yearn for, for whatever future there is to hold if time could yield to us, so shall we not, so we ought not, to burden nor rest, all choice is wrong and all choice is right, for the facets shall reveal themselves once more and teach what I cannot, fleeting joy of thine heart or satisfaction of thine soul, or bittersweet bites of this tart called change, of guilty pleasures and secret fancies, there is more facets of this vast world. Rumination and reflection, there may be, as in the scholar of the past or the regret that will last, thou will be truly happy for all time, though thou may not realize it at all times, if thy hast the will to wake once more, lay a kiss upon thine wife or upon thy morning light, or one’s self, or whatever may be apropos, and rise once again to greet possibility, to tenderly hug or caress, to firmly shake it’s hand, to carefully look upon it’s features, to now and for the rest of thy days see it’s glorious form, and to once more be invigorated by its song.

            To one and all it dedicates, to one and all it sings melancholy or joyous or somber or dissonant or free or sly or lofty, chivalrous, sensual, childish, or all those moods and shades which present themselves to thy ears to enjoy. To my mind and body I leave this, the pad my muse, the pen my mark. The words my message, to those that may indulge, to those: this I leave you through ages or not, through days or hours, through this stream of our collective knowing to be forgotten or lost or found or cherished; this I leave; fleeting or enduring.

             

Reviews

[A.L.]

The way you write makes me curious about how you speak. I like it.

My favorite line throughout the many jewels you through my way is, "...or bittersweet bites of this tart called change..." Perfect description. Another great work jcarlson33.

[jcarlson33]

You are too kind :) this was an old piece but something Walt Whitman may be proud of I would hope!

[A.L.]

Just speaking the truth!

Proud indeed.