FlungUndone

A stone rolls down a hill, tumbling incessantly, hurling and clamouring across the scuffed terrain.

Driven by momentum alone, I push on, no plotted destination, just over, around, clacking across the cement, the dirt, leaving only trace evidence of my passing.

My brother, watches me from the bars of his prison, with intrigue and bewilderment, at my chaotic, random decent.

A stone rolls down a hill until it drops, unable to go any further, waiting to be flung or kicked, swept away in a current or ground to dust in the shifting earth.

Head falling, spent, to my pillow, the hurling beasts are tamed for one more night. My thoughts return to my brother, unnamed, hemmed in, a watchful spectator, stone face, frozen in time.

We seem to need each other almost as much as we need to go our own ways.

My soul aches to reach out – to commune and be held. But in truth, what I need most is to feel the pull of my own destiny, the source of my passion, the flinger of my soul.

Perhaps then, I can be driven for the right reasons, anticipating the future rather than the bottom.

And finally flung undone - I'll leave the heaviness behind.