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 blue.
Gaze juts out to meet boundless sky.
In this gathering silence,
gathering stillness,
narrative awareness dissipates —
dormant agendas rescind,
foibles fallen into,
and the unyielding instinct
to do differently dwindles.
This sweet unmaking
is a narrative beat.

Eyes snap open from unexpected slumber.
Adrift at sea, water’s edge bleeds
into sky’s horizon.
I catch my reflection,
I catch my voice echoing back off the water.
If I am here I am damned;
if I am here I am free to the day once more.
Chapters close, meanings fold.
Hands discard knotted spindles of
time and meaning overboard.
What remains is lighter —
a long, drawn‑out reflection decides
what remains essential.

This detour in meaning demands
I once again return to participation
in the stitching back into life,
with the old inner workings quiet beneath me.
The sky is blue. A smile emanates from somewhere
deep inside. Once more I cast off using cupped hands
as paddles.

On this, my next jaunt,
may I keep the narrative lines from twisting me
into a bind so tight I suffer time’s unfolding.

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