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It weighed on my mind so early in the morning that I thought it was a dream continued well past leaving my bed and walking down the hallway. The image opened my mind and of course my view; the very thought that I was sleepwalking or in an out of body journey; nothing is keeping me here on this earth. I have encountered these images before and they always affect me the same way. Yet my feelings now are not as relieved and I am in some way just off center that the hope of entering my kitchen offers no real world solution. Interestingly enough I am crossing a covered bridge from one bank to the other of an unknown river.

This is not providence and the circumstances that this image stays with me assail as much as they bound. I saw the point of entrance into the bridge at the same time I witnessed its exit. With this I am not stranded nor am I free to linger or stroll for that matter. It seemed like minutes have turned to hours and the scene can be no more pressed into my head without striking a contrast to my immediate surroundings: bare feet, shirtless, cup of tea in hand and the windows which surround me denoting that I am still inside.

The tea is good and it soothes me. I sit down to a different scene which has presented itself; it is drifting. Where I would have wanted to be more anchored it appears that my next scenario has me viewing the banks of this unnamed river, and it of all things is the point of view of someone looking down to the water’s flow and the cultivated parts of the actual banks, both left and right. I am with someone else and if I do say so myself: “This has all the earmarking of a fine romance thing—this drifting”. Accepting the invitation to view the world from high above, as the boat descends, I am also casting out a line to see if I can slow down this progression. To my added delight, I know that I am also fishing.

The arrangement of looking down at the boat inside from inside its gunwales summons me to the bow while my company rows to correct our course. I am convinced that the weather is fair and that no other voices can be heard over our collective whispers. All that exists is summoned to the art of fly fishing while drifting, but it still most gratifying that I can enjoy the next sips of my tea as well—this outside looking inside point of view. We are unhurried and the lines of the deck are curved to present a most interesting perspective.

If this is an out of body journey the goal must be to proceed on the pre-inclined voyage as if it is a reminder of what I would rather be doing: not detached, without irritation or impression of danger of a mind come undone. As the breeze blows across the bow I know not where we are heading except down. I am not subjected to the motion of the boat as it twists in and out of the rivers eddy, and it keeps me in a state of alert but not anguished—this need to go with the flow.

Without any noteworthy pronouncements, we drift on in silence until we are so far from the covered bridge that we take on the perspective of dots. There is some color in the sky but for the most part the details are muted as we ourselves become silhouettes. It was soon thereafter that we no longer mattered at all. Nothing remains to be seen but the river itself. And I have only the last sip of my tea to remind myself where I had started, and where I will end up today.

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