The middle age philosophers had a name for it: The Black Bile. It was that which flowed in a man and turned is thoughts inward, smote his dreams aflame, rendered a mood sour and a countenance odd. A journey, though, always seems to set a mind to wander.
Bolder gentlemen can heave themselves from deep holes of poor thought and inwardness with a stroll through the mountains. I require grand shifts and tectonic pressures. Latitudinal change brings interruption and necessitates one to refresh all assumptions. Imagined world orders are cast into flux. Rethinking the boundaries and borders of ones life lends perspective and widens the options for future investigations.
I dream of other shores and hidden trails – of losing my way and then finding, amid the frightening void, that all is fine and right. The shameless fetters that bind a man sag loose in midnight’s wandering pathos. Last night, three hours of sleep rendered thrilling escapes through the minds wandering stroll. Daytime explanations and recapitulations fall flat. This morning, I came too in an era of chaos and order. It is the 28th day of August. I reside in a rented home with unmatched art. I make cereal. I put on my shoes and I can not even begin to imagine what might be next.