Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on.
River songs. Haunting and deep. One generation writes, the next covers. Changing little, saying much. Rivers.
We're all carried along by the river of dreams.
Are we? How long? The dream is a young fool's fuel. Dream current flows fast when life is new, narrow. Every river's path ends.
Is a dream a lie if it don't come true, or is it something worse?
Worse. No? A lie is disappointment, hurt, mistrust. It's over. A dream that don't come true haunts. Lingers. Gnaws.
Too many times we stand aside and let the waters slip away.
Dreams float on, float away, and where lies the blame? The water? The course? Dreams pass and waves cease, what's left on the surface - but the face of the dreamer.
But now we call against the tide, those distant days are passing by.
Passing - present tense, unfinished. Still time. The river that isn't dry carries hope. Hope carries life. Life carries on.
I will walk alone by the black muddy river and listen to the ripples as they moan.
The river - Nile, Thames, Oyapock - matters not. The pace, the terrain, mean little. It's mouth can remain unknown. Stay the course.
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