I venture on for hours, taking in what I see. Analyzing the placement of every tree, every limb, every leaf. Every creature that stirs adds to my enjoyment as I study the world around me, as if I was still a lad, anxious to gain knowledge. I set a place aside for myself to sit and to sketch a caricature of the existence surrounding me. I do something different, I do not sketch with pencil or with pen, I sketch with intellect. I examine every edge, every crook, and I remember. I remember it well. Not only do I capture the beauty, I capture the scent, the feel, the taste. I paint it in my mind, never to be forgotten.
The day grows old just as myself, and the night comes in, young and new. I am wide eyed, yet blindfolded by the darkness, which covers me like a blanket suffocating my sense of sight. I close my eyes; I hear the whisper of the wind through the crisp leaves adorning the century old trees of oak. I record the reverberations, not with a emotionless apparatus, with something more powerful, the memory of an old man. A memory that is scarred by war, by pain, by fear. A memory that knows how to remember because it was never taught how to forget.
The diverging path ahead seems as if it goes on forever in the endless green, but as the shadows have fallen upon it, I perceive this more clearly while not seeing at all. I do not see the end, but I take that with contentment. I have satisfied myself, just as the wood has satisfied endless on comers. I am not asking to see the end, to know what’s ahead, I am asking to feel the present, to know the moment, to be the now. That is my deviating path. That is my expression of self and this is my declaration of independence.