Water so continual, wet and cold, warm and soft, relentlessly moving over the earth.

Water runs on top of a rock, eventually through the rock, wearing it down and down and down…

Is it foolish to believe you can escape the death of your dreams? Are we all just grabbing at straws?

I fear one day I’ll meet the child I once was, that she will look in my eyes, and grieve the absence of vision she finds in me.

What will I say to her? Will there be any way to reassure her? Or will I make excuses? “If I had known, I would have…” done things differently?

Is it possible? Can revelation come to me now before this river becomes a canyon, before the years wear away at me like water on stone?

Water, so continual, so unceasing, like the passing of the hours, the minutes, the seconds on a clock, challenging my static disposition.

How do I pick up these stones, so heavy and black with weight of my unfinished life? How do I become the water?

Oh little girl, innocent child, I don’t know what to tell you.

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