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A bit of here and there; an anthology of random mental tweaks.

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"A society grows great when old men plant trees the shade of which they know they will never sit in. Good people, do things for other people, without expecting anything in return." 
A bit of a reflection; he has the least of grappling to discern where this is headed. Well, it is said, may the flow have its way. 

Amongst the days where light has shone on bare "knuckles", there is an epitome of consciousness that has nothing to do with being sane or present. Well, the mind is miles away from what many will say is sanity or even satisfaction... 

There is an old alibi that belts off the music system; one that declares how old souls we are. he reminiscences the year 1998, like it was yesterday, noontide, clear skies, calm with a humid waft of air from the midlands of the Rift; with a constant flutter of winds and warm tufts of air rising from the green fields of freshly weeded maize plantains. he could feel minute droplets of water on his face, yet the sky was as clear as day itself. From a distance, he could hear the rumbling thunder accompanied by ominous dark tufts of clouds, adorned with constant flashes of brilliant lights and shape shifts. Sundowners; a part of life itself that has symbolized a sense of direction and belonging could be heard from an old family heirloom, an eccentric "National" radio. Amidst all the clamor and racket surrounding a world trying to turn into a new century, Pops had tuned to the frequency 09:15 MHZ for the usual dose of sundowner music. Cindy Lauper's Time after Time could be heard soothing and etching core memories to those who cared to listen. Golden times those ones...

Adrift in the same boat; today lies down similar serendipity: a certain piece of fate cast in yonder one that can hardly be changed by the constant turn of the clock's arms. Time; like the universe itself, ticks oblivious of what we mortals experience. Of a certain case is a soul; so restless, so complicated, so free that it scares him witless. Like a free bird, a wind that caresses the skin, and roams free of prejudice and castigations. wholesome experiences seen gliding through envisages of the now modern socials, wafting through the mushy Pest's weather like a drunk angel with a halo of importance. Or is she?

He gazes; from the depths of extrication, musing and waiting... For time; as it ticks, waits for no man.

Memoir #2, Summer 2022.

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