1.1.11

11 weeks, brings us to a sense of touch upon the skin.
Eyes fused shut, yet squinting.
Where once was passionate eyes gleaming melancholy, now hardened into purpose, now softened into strides.
Where once I dreamed of bedding heroes and a Jesse James of my own, I now dream of week long hikes with my kindred. Of the unique face, hauntingly my own. The passion. The melancholy eyes.
Where once was a restlessness, no endeavor or conquest could vanquish,
comes the ultimate freedom
from reasoning.