The Parted Way

Chapter 1

Thy works and tribulations:                   
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Sometimes I wonder;
then realize that I don't wonder nearly as often as I used to.

It is, after all, a terrible thing to grow in wisdom; to leave the want of mystery behind.

That innocence should be lost; replaced by terrible knowledge, and the unshakable comprehension of evil.
For it is through these dark, inescapable Revelations,   that terrifying truths are made self-evident.

Indeed, It's beginning to feel right that it's so cold.

As though the efficacy of winter conveys a more fitting parallel to what mankind has made of itself.

could it be the hope that comes with spring thaw is an internalized admittance of the inevitability of sin and the dread of just punishment? A quiet exultation to have once more escaped the divine judgment that awaits each of us.

That perhaps these turning seasons were formed as an inescapable metaphor of the lengths which men will take to flee from the inevitable admittance of their own guilt.

Perhaps I'm too young for that manner of introspection.

Braum;
when I was a child I cursed that name, I regarded it as some great burden to be saddled with such a monicker. the other boys would compare its pronunciation to the bleating of a Goat or some other beast of similar indignity.

In my youthful mind, the insurmountable magnitude of such insults placed them within a realm wholly detached from the capacity for potential forgiveness,
surely the Messiah himself would not have begrudged me of my wrath.

bloodied noses and blackened eyes were inflicted and received with comfortable regularity in response to such teasing. Though, strong emotions like that seem worlds away at this point in my life. Some would claim this to be a sign of encroaching maturity though I know better.

I'm Torn from my self-reflection by the familiar sound of a dying tree, falling off in the distance. In a way I envy that dark Goliath, its journey is at an end.
whereas "I" am left with no recourse but to take stock of myself yet again.

Tired and hungry as usual, though as always, the worst of it is the damp, chilly ache of my cold, wet feet.

It seems as though my socks are always wet, one of the few remaining consistencies from my childhood.

Good shoes would hold in warmth leading to socks saturated by the moisture of my own sweat.
Whereas poor ones would let in the snow, resulting in a similar outcome.

And It's getting colder.

the distinctive smell of thrice frozen vegetation half thawed and coalesced into the dirty slush of this endless path finalizes my return to unkind reality as I attempt to shake some feeling back into the tips of my numb fingers. Suddenly perceiving that shallow din which comprises the ever-present song of the forest;
Branches quaking, wind shuddering through the black spindle branches of the aspen wood. Surpassed only by the piercing cries of the ravens.

It seems as though there are always ravens nearby. Taunting from the safety of high branches like belligerent children. Ever squawking. A poet could likely wax some grand parallel from the inherent unflappable symbolism of their perduring presence but Lord knows I lack the talent for that.

She's off to my left now, the pretty one with the ginger hair; flanked on either side by an older couple, (her parents?)

I often wish that I could find cause to speak with her;  though for THAT I would need something to say. Which is, of course, a luxury few of us retain at this point.