The weight of ten-thousand beginnings rolls over onto sunken shoulders. Chins, long held upright with intention and defiant will, now drop. Hands, once busy and vibrant and ever-seeking, grow idle and limp. Steps are heavy. Minds, clouded.
The masters are in their temples, the caribou migrate, life rots and reconstructs. How did Time feel before we began to measure it? Try, not try. Do, not do. Try not to try to do.
Everything in the hemisphere of consciousness has two sides, reflecting.