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Who was I to question reality? As the light fractured into its familiar colors, I questioned again. I balanced my treaded foot on a granite surround, these words etched deep: 'It's not the size of the person in the fight, but the size of the fight in the person.' This balancing act in a garden within a sanctuary became my new reality. A crossroads, a junction, a tightrope walk between the firm, enduring granite and the sodden grass of the everyday. A sense of poetic inevitability washed over me as the words of my life - past and future - enveloped me with the comfort of bedrock and splintered ...
Who was I to question reality? As the light fractured into its familiar colors, I questioned again. I balanced my treaded foot on a granite surround, these words etched deep: 'It's not the size of the person in the fight, but the size of the fight in the person.' This balancing act in a garden within a sanctuary became my new reality. A crossroads, a junction, a tightrope walk between the firm, enduring granite and the sodden grass of the everyday. A sense of poetic inevitability washed over me as the words of my life - past and future - enveloped me with the comfort of bedrock and splintered light. How fitting that these words formed in prose, a passion from my youth now reignited, burning too bright to ignore. Were they my words, or those of a power greater than myself? The mystery lingers. Is life a simple journey? Not in my experience. This is my journey, told in prose.
