Stories connect almost always

Was on a short walk that took me through the familiar streets; it was that time of the day when the sun sets and the skies color up.
Found the familiar vantage point that overlooks a creek, have been here before; the views are familiar but something is different – the changing position of the sun and thus the seasons have changed the view.

I could trace out the flow of the waters, trickling down; making its way towards some seen but forgotten place.

I rest assured knowing it will connect with other water bodies from other places.
Their journeys different. What stories they hold, what secrets they have learnt through the tumultuous journey through the rocks and the grasslands they had come over. Taking the same paths many may have taken before them from when is really not the question.

For each time the light changes the views different the plants are new this time. Green and white and black and brown they show themselves to me.

The landscape has changed, marshes have formed solidified in some places, the water levels have dwindled over time leaving behind the gentle slops craving the landscape. What is now here is a semblance of the previous travelers.
The same path but in a different time and that makes the real difference.
Random shrubs have taken over the places their colors different but they look up towards the heavens all the same. How did these shrubs come about, which bird or creature of the lands brought forth the seeds that got them here in their journey to consume all that the planet provides for them at this place. To live and perhaps to pass on their tales.

Random passerbys tele communicate the state of the chilly weather to people
far off, separated by time and space. The light, the weather and the state of things are different elsewhere.
These folks attempt to share their story of the moment in the hopes of transferring their experience of the now to someone else. They talk of the measures they took today to quench themselves of the cold weather. The discribe the coffee; hot they had it seems to relieve themselves. The language they use is agreed and understood by the others on the recieving end. They make up the mental imagery of what cold means; using the experiences of their life to make the judgment.

When there are countless words in some other languages to precisely convey the range of temperature the word cold means.

Here they have but a single word: cold to describe what they feel. Our experiences conveyed this way is restricted by the limited vocabulary of the language and perhaps by the language.
What one truly feels cannot be communicated this way.
How different are we from the other creatures that inhabit this place in the now: limited by their life experiences in truly knowing the state of things. Sharing the reality with others is a difficult thing. The language is different, how unique is then the sense of the individual mind.

How do other creatures then sense the world around them, do they share the same language. Can we be the other creatures if we know this language ?

Could we perhaps unravel something greater if we did this. What limitations to understanding could we shatter ?

What awaits those who transcend if transcend is the right word to use here.

Could we perhaps listen to the trickles of the water and uncover their meaning.
Is this pursuit even the worthy of us. What boundaries exist but for the simple desire to seek the secret of the language.

Is there a universal language that we could learn and perhaps use and someday to make these boundaries dissolve to reveal the true nature of the reality.

What sacrifices are we to give to make this possible? To understand and perhaps live in this alternate reality as an alternate being, forever on the journey that countless others have taken, their paths marked only by the traces they left and continue to leave on the landscape of space, time and something else too.

What started as an attempt to convey the sense of being to another has now opened up more questions than answers.


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