Monday Blues: Mourn Not


Mourn not this decaying carcass, the dried out husk. Its casual discarding may be insult to a life of service, true, but think instead upon more fresh and supple times. Remember miles of warm and sunny days, jostling with friends along ragged trails, sharing laughs and joking repartee. Epics are told in its peeling skin and frayed tendons. Everyday events might be told in its wear, adventure embedded in its sun-hardened dermis. Archaeologists can recreate a life, a culture from a painted shard, a carved bone, so too can we, adherents of the spoked wheel, recreate stories from discarded remains. We can do so because we have been there, on similarly worn tires. Bouncing from stone to stone, slithering where sand fills gaps between firm surfaces, maybe leaving terra firma completely even if for but a second or two. Miles long, and miles short, each ride an individual memory, each also contributing to a cumulative whole. Small things, so easily discarded and replaced share in the making of memories rote, and memories bold. Mourn not this small thing lying in the dirt, instead let us wake its memories while refreshing our own.

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