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Wheel stuck in mud, hands tied in roots, to get out, climb out of a rut. The rut is a lie, but I, raised in deceit, knew no better. Sweet Journey, do you not see me standing at your doorstep, grinding shoes to dust, bag full in preparation for the steps to come, yet I am trapped, incapable, paralyzed by introspection.

Dread for the unprepared mind, made to walk the plank, thrown into an empty day. A reminder of the void before the first cry, and its continuation long beyond the life of man. A single day, mythical, symbolic of them all.

I looked life in the eye and said, I need a rest, a momentary respite, from your Moment. That was given, but rest turned to atrophy, a sweet fruit gone sour, and disappointment rushed in like a river, and blood to the head. Did I become brighter by this experience? There is a ready answer to this question.

One brave thought, and there came the inquisition. The children of my mind are mine, to remain in my custody, you will not drag them away, and pull us apart. But humanity, in its moving masses, demanded an explanation for my indulgence, in God-given freedom.

I knew a drunkard, a shell of a man, but still I managed to scrounge some insights from his lacklustre presence. Once he said, hell is other people. Think on that. So I thought.

But to keep my head on my shoulders, I smiled and shook hands.

Eppur si muove.