I wait for the people in front of me to be out of sight before taking the trail, changing my shoes slowly, watching as they disappear into the trees.
I start walking and am soon out of sight myself. I try to think of the story I want to be writing, but my thoughts keep going to back to Zeitgeist, "What if it's true?" It can't be. What if it is?
It can be, hell, it probably is. What now? What can one person do against such a thing?
The sinking in my heart as I watched told me that it was true. I know that feeling, I trust it. I've ignored it before and it cost me, cost others too. But that voice, the one that tells the truth, never knows what to do. It's silent and I falter, hoping for the best, not knowing which way to turn, and that's never right. Hope for the best, yes, but work for the best as well. Still, what to do?
The trail goes on, with numerous switchbacks, as do my thoughts. Lie. Truth. How could they do this to us? Why is answered, but how? One million dead already, when do we stop? Six million? Another holocaust.
Then they appear, two horses next to the trail, a gelding and a mare. I stop and say hello. The mare ignores me, the gelding watches me sideways as he scratches his ass on a pine. I start the trail again and there is another, a beautiful buckskin mare on the trail. She doesn't slow until she reaches me, then she stops. I reach out to her, feeling the velvet of her muzzle. She takes my scent with a hollow snort and begins to nuzzle my arm, I reach back to her withers and massage them, enjoying her smell as much as she enjoys mine. I want to climb on and ride her into a fairytale where there is no gray, where I can be the hero.
How wonderful, her only concerns this morning are grass and water; no worries about bills to be paid, home repairs to be finished, no thoughts of love, or war, or God.
Your Tiny Hand Is Frozen
5 hours ago