Stream of conscious

These roads travelled upon, moved along by experience, driven by desire, unseen by apathy of ignorant moments, visions of now built upon by the mortared fragments of yesterday, here the rains fall on an upturned face, and each drop of rain falls on the realisation that each represents fallen moments, time passed, previous events that fall onto the surface of what we call everyday, until everyday becomes congealed into the clotted recognition of reflection, what does it mean to be here, now, after all that has passed, the well worn tracks of meaning only come from our walking along similar paths, sometimes our feet fall into the footprints of others and we wonder about the moment that step was taken, the experience, was it purposeful, a part of someones journey or just a diversion, an errand, these paths we cross sometimes conscious sometimes not, but we catch their meaning eventually in the periphery of our senses and meaning that once eluded us starts to take shape in our conscious and we draw close to perceptions that never entered our ways of thinking, the senses draw us to places unimagined and our mind steers us toward the blossoming of such feeling, as though our petals were never open to such light, such warmth, such presence, and we find new paths, new intersections where we meet or collide, sometimes spectacularly and others horrifically, we forget our spontaneity or perhaps it forgets us until such moments that our paths cross or we feel the familiarity of our paths, wherever in time, stepping into oneness, and touching the circumstances that bring us from undoing into being.

Disclaimer: Apologies to those who are grammatically pedantic.