Patterns

Our lives are all stories, composed as we read them. I want to take a little break from mine right now. Just put it on the coffee table and pick up another one for a while. Lay back in a hammock and enter another world, bare feet speckled by the paint of sun and shade.

But my book won’t be put down, its contents overshadow any other story in my mind, my feet in small black shoes stay under the shadow of a broad wooden desk. A pen tracing over and over the patterns in my mind. Words of thought flowing in familiar circles and spirals, creating landscapes I’ve traveled before. Beautiful ones in their way, but now they look tired and brown, like shoes have walked along the same trail too many times and the grass has given way to mud, finally relenting to the repetitive weight. I guess there are untouched fields all around, but we are creatures of habit, both addicted and tired by the rhythms of our lives. How do we pause? How do we change our reality? Ourselves? Go in, into the centre, and rest.