twelve miles or so – but it could have been days away
who can measure time or distance
when sheer depletion of thought, exhaustion of spirit
completely swallow existence
only sense and instinct propel, habit holds sway
your mind keeps a holding pattern
while your feet move by some unseen force
it is not bravery or intelligence
we are animals
it is instinct
survival
to stop and reflect
could mean drowning or being swept away by a wind storm
whatever demon element you allow
still waters may be deep but they are also deadly serious
the wind may cry but it can also be held
heroism is skipping stones and flying kites
The Word Rummager 
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