Muin

The temptation to wander has left. Dejection settles in its place. A guiding arrow, once followed with absolute resolve, formed from sunrays poking through foliage onto concrete, now points the opposite way. It, too, is unsure of the direction to travel. Conviction morphs into shame when the lack of progress is realised. Only circles have been walked. A forward propulsion by blind faith can solely result in being led astray, though knowledge of this kind is uncommon. Misguided trust is deceptively appealing. Typical when failing to confront beliefs. Sometimes it is easier to trust something outside the body, an external sign or omen. These harbingers are sought after with greedy eyes. Taken from unrelated anecdotes in the landscape. A cloud the shape of death; a tree the epitome of salvation.

Nothing in the scenery has changed. Blackbirds, with bright orange beaks that standout against the emerald grass-scape, continue their scavenging rituals, hopping along the ground to claim tiny victims. Fields roll into one another, their stalks of barley bend to the wind's will. All around, the world continues its rhythmic cycle, unaware of missteps. Personal perception sits uneasily with reality. Rural space out there is like rural space inside. Sit in the middle of the field. Spend the day tracing where sun's warmth is left on the skin. Sense transformations. Notice energy left behind in others' footprints. Align the internal with the external. Once again, sunrays will push through, but not between leaves. Now, the world will speak directly to the soul. This is the compass to follow.