Hergest Ridge

For the last few days the city lies under a blanket of spring fog. The snow recedes, the earth bleeds water flooding everything. From my sixth floor residence, I watch the peaks of trees and the few tall buildings hold their own above the milky mess that clings to the earth below.

I take another shot of Troika, attempting to smother a realisation… the realisation that where ever I go I will find landscapes that leave the soul breathless, while the absence of the people I’ve left behind will forever leave me feeling fragmented.

 
“At last, when you free the marionette from its strings it’ll lie lifeless before you, for that which binds it is also its life source. And if you’re truly a great man you will breathe life back into it, inspire it to live a life of its own – for freedom without inspiration is the worst kind of death.”

When I was a child, I’ve cut up a picture into a puzzle. When that was done, I reassembled the pieces, and then cut them into ever smaller bits for a tougher challenge. My father warned me that the pieces I’m making will be too small to be ever put together again.

I tried long and hard but never did manage to prove him wrong.

Father never did have any words of wisdom that stuck, and in that way he remains a hollow being. But as I look around me, I’m struck by a notion that perhaps I’m again cutting things into pieces too small to ever form a proper whole – only this time I’m cutting apart my essence.