I am trying to remember these days. The past two weeks blend into few moments, not dim but dry eyed, wide eyed wonder and a type of tip-toeing I have never before practiced. When I close my eyes, I see straw. I see the hottest skies, wet mud, bruised eyebrows, plastic bottles and the sheen of chip bags inside out. Those were the only leaves flying in the winds.

Why there was no romance in those mountains. Beautiful, yes, but empty of promise, and empty of angels too. Places where coffee is grown but cannot be bought; a river runs through but cannot be fished; rains fall fast but can harvest no more than a single, pricey spice.

In this, my worries seem but small and somewhat solvable. All sprouting from too many choices, too many possibilities that compete in my head, my hands. It is not that I have chosen wrong in life, but simply that I have not chosen.

While, from afar, choices seem to pave roads or impede them, maybe--and I should know best--we cannot choose what is best or better. It is chosen for us in small salutes, never in promise but instead strong actions that lead to sounder sleep. Yes, to find somewhere a sweet, sweatless sleep is all to hope for, when biggest hopes cannot be fulfilled, but desire too cannot be buried. An inbetween of peace.