During a quiet moment, I stare at the lines across the palm of my left hand. Staged in coffee granules and drying blood, weathered by water and heat and the grip of aging. Cracks and canals and creased future time lines. I wonder where my hands have been.
I'm at a stage of life where I have enough experience to think I can make decisions. I come to the realisation that each decision is either young and foolish, or old and wise, but I can no longer tell the difference. Then I realise that maybe there is no difference - or that it doesn't matter if there is or not. My brow furrows like an old man seeing rain for the first time.
Brian Catling's "The Vorrh" replays over in my mind, hours/days/weeks after I encounter each line. Returning is a form of advancement. What we discover afresh is simply what we forgot.
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