The Tower and the Path

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

The tower is coming along nicely. It's defensible with thick walls and even though I can't see them, I take great comfort in knowing that they are there. I imagine it's tall enough that if I climbed the stairs to the top that I could see for miles in every direction, over hill and over valley, perhaps all the way to the gentle lapping waters of the marina. Strange that I couldn't envision the tower without help. I needed the spark of possibility from another, in this case from a man lonelier and wiser than I who mentioned using absence itself as a building block.

Improbable? Yes.

Yet I can feel the outline of the rough stone with my fingertips and I know that while they share a crude similarity in shape, each one differs in size and material. Every one was a good trade: unhappiness for security. I'd rather have joy than security but that's a road that's been overgrown and lost to time, so security it is. Maybe from the tower, I'll one day be able to see that once golden path and find a way to return home.


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