The Myth of Prescience
The Myth of Prescience All purpose and carelessness, all coveted stimulation and devoted duty crescendoed then receded, and now left lone in the stilling swell, the boat’s soft swoosh‑glide comes to a gentle halt. The oars slip from atrophied hands, plunge into the water. No wave of momentum, no tool for movement — just the minute sound of water breathing. Blistered palms soothe in rubbing each other. I would be doing every choice that brought me here disservice to think all roads ultimately led here. Yet I would be unwise to think the strange inner machinations of myself — the forces accepted, the forces rejected, and the environment they were born in — didn’t quietly carve and whisper this myth into existence. Rigid back finds overdue respite as it meets the boat’s bench. It crackles as outstretched spine uncoils atop wooden planks. The sky is paintbrush blue with a gradient so pure it nearly comes across as a singular shade of blu...