The little old man lived on top of a hill that overlooked the village. He lived by himself in a little hut, but not alone. Some people keep pets, these animals kept him. They lived with him and shared his space, he fed them and talked to them and though they never understood what he meant, the loved him in that innocent and trusting way that only animals can. There was much love in the small hut on top of the hill.
He know that the waters were coming. He went down to the village to beseech the townspeople to act while they had time and prepare for a new way of life. But they scorned him and claimed he was jealous of their friendships, that they had people to talk to while he had only birds and beasts.
He left them sad, not for the comments on his humble life, but for the lives that they would soon loose out of foolishness and pride.
He built a boat for himself and his animals and as he clamed, the rains fell down and filled the lakes and the creeks and crept up on the sleeping villagers.
The water filled the valleys and climbed their way up the little old man’s hill where they picked up his floating machery and carried him away.
He traveled until the days became weeks, the weeks months and the months years.
One day the rains stopped and he found himself in a strange land with buildings so high that even now they still shown over the waters.
He got out to inspect one of these buildings as his shop went by. A strong wind carried his boat off without him. Stranded he could do nothing but wait for the water to recede again.
The water raised and raised until he found himself on the highest point of the highest tower, then the rains stopped for good. But the waters did not go down. For all I know he waits there still, hoping to be found by his animals. What happened to them I don’t know, but I suspect that they found their way to where they were going. Yes, they got there allright and on a small hill a world away they wait for him.

- story from one of my old journals


Sometimes as I lie in my bed, a moment away from sleep, my minds drifts to a sea half a world away. And there, above the white powder sand and beneath the clockwork of the sky, I find peace. In the rhythmic fall of waves and the forgetful call of birds. And my mind drifts further, pursing to other moments of peace in my life, moments of serenity and contentedness, the woods of a friary, an abandoned golf course behind a church, a rock on a cliff. These are places what identify not just a location, but a mentality and a emotion. An entire mood of being wraped up benith a tree or in a field. There are so many places and people in the world that I miss, in this land of gravel and broken glass I feel such a vast disconnect, not from the work but from the people. More then anything I long for a community, a family of support and desire that I can give something too. I miss all of my countless people scattered across the world and hope to be near them again.
I’ve been going through some of my old journals and I found this story I wrote years and years ago, it speaks strongly to isolation so it seems appropriate. Sometimes I feel like I used to be so much smarter then I am now, or that I was much more reflective or analytical. You hear stories about how the worries of the world can fade your idealism and I’m horrified that it could happen to me. I hope I never loose the values and idealism I’ve been obsessed with for so long, and sometimes I wonder if I already have and if now I’m only living from a pattern, which I pray is not the case. I hat writing in my live journal because I usually feel so mellow dramatic, but I haven’t bought a new journal yet so this works for now.