A human oddity propelled into a world that he doesn’t understand completely, and the world reciprocates by not understanding him in return. As one grows older, it seems that the divide grows and he drifts further away. He becomes comfortable with the nature of himself, but realizes that his nature is the very thing that puts him at odds with everything else around him.
More at home in the trees and the breeze, he finds solace in the silence. The smells of earth and petrichor are the aroma of a home always known, and a sense of belonging to his heart. A rain in the distance sings a song with a rhythm that can’t be replicated, though he always channels that as he sings inside of his own head. Everywhere around him, when he is far removed from the lingering odor of humanity, is a tiny miracle.
The task at hand is to find these miracles within the shackles of a loveless society. A society inhabited by the grief of contact. He exists within this place, whether by necessity or habit, and the struggling path emerges day by day but for the fragments of time in which he escapes.
He is led to a thought that makes a connection. When such an event happens, it is like nursing an ember within a patch of kindling hoping for a spark that is lasting. Hoping for warmth and light.
The thought meanders and is explained by an observation. Small flora begins as a seed. If a crack is found it will grow. Much to the chagrin of suburban men as they tirelessly battle the semblance of an accepted tidy lawn, the seed will take root in the cracks. In the midst of construction and stone, pavement and architecture, this seed will take root and thrive if given the opportunity. Look between the cracks in sidewalks and alleyways and you are sure to find a struggle toward the sun. Tiny green tendrils reaching from the fallout of man toward the sky, toward the sun and toward the light.
Isn’t this the battle that plagues him? If the seed can survive, then so must he. Cursed with an observing and incessant mind, each morning is the same internal philosophy doing battle with itself. Breathe in and create your own breeze. Sing silently the connection with the divine, even if you don’t know the language. Reach upward toward the light.
A new day will dawn, and the next step is taken. Eyes heavenward weary traveler.