Write to Live: A Log on Primeval Trail

Hurtling logs is a semiotic act, for me. I jumped over logs in the thinner forests of spring, pretending I wore T’Challa’s skin instead of my own and pacing my heart with drum-music. Summer and new strategies ushered a new cycle of activity, a new trail to run and the bodily impetus to rise earlier from sleep. I call it “The Primeval Trail” in an affectionate nod to its damp darkness, heat, flushes of ferns and conifers, and the spider-webs I collide with on my way. It murmurs poetic suggestions about itself to me; I’ve also gained the ability to run in the company of my own thoughts, alone. Heavy inklings swarm to me, as thick as the air along those soaked and crowded paths, and I grapple with the idea of my life and my self. I leapt a moss-seasoned log as I wondered “must every endeavor begin with an aspiration and end with an achievement? Or aren’t there other ways to engage?” My new trail-shoes cradled my stride as I continued, working toward the next jump… [next]

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