After Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, c. 1818
On my commute up the mountain, I roll the boulder of my every weird failure even as I assure my friends that love is not a reward owed only to the flawless, that the trail of the self need not be linear and paved with timekeeping apps The view from up top may be beautiful, I say to my burdens on speakerphone, but beauty is not exclusive to summits or those who reach them Stop, wanderer Scrape your boots along the ground Feel that? Nothing real can exist without friction Let go of your rock See if it floats And if it does, You have my permission to let it go and enjoy the view
Featured image held in the public domain via Wikimedia.
