. . . . . . . . . Traces
This is that. I am.
It is possible to view here the indication of ideas I have decided to give form to.
Many have been previously posted elsewhere, they are collected here like various pebbles from my walks, dutifully staying where they have been put until the electrical weather erases them.
Unconcerned with your expectations, yet aware of your excitable sensibilities, I have purposefully made this dull and uninteresting so that only the persistent will read this, as I have no desire for fame or fortune except that it is well-deserved.
I expect the kind reader to do his or her own fact-checking, and although at times I will provide references, they are not to prove truth, for that cannot be proven, but rather to further indicate new directions.
I can point a way, I can indicate a star, but I cannot walk for you there from where you are.
I can look, I can see, I can understand,
but I cannot look through your eyes, or conjecture with your mind, or understand how you feel.
I can touch, I can care, I can feel,
but I cannot touch your hand, dear reader, or live your experiences.
I can taste, I can smell, I can enjoy my own reward of sustenance,
but I cannot make a meal for you dear reader, though I would like to serve more than to be served. The meal we share while I write and you read, is separated by time and distance, yet I would share with you if I could, in the ways of old; food and drink served with ideas enhances the experience of both.
I can share a thought,
I can share a feeling,
I can share a memory,
and a song,
but I can only know if I have shared if you leave a note, an indication, a trail of breadcrumbs that says you have been here.
The moving finger writes, and having written, moves on.
The tapping fingers type, and having typed, move toward mouse button-pushing, fork lifting, folding laundry, washing dishes, combing hair, and other mundane yet lovely tasks.