waiting

All things come to those who wait.
I sat there waiting, on the small stone by the riverbed. I closed my eyes and lay my face in my hands, carefully balancing my elbows on my knees. How long did I have to wait? Could it be any longer? When did this time end? The river kept rustling on, endlessly. Would it ever stop?
Elle flotte, elle hésite; en un mot, elle est femme.
The bend in the road was so great that I would only see it approaching when it ultimately would. Would I move beyond the bend as to see it from afar? No, staying still was the only way to occupy these thoughts of mine. I would not move, I would rather gather moss. God moves in mysterious ways. Ido not budge, I do not even stare. I am still and all I (do not) see is darkness, I cannot see beyond thy bend, dear road of winding features.

Yet the sound of the river kept pulling me forward, the crowd of liquid motions, dragging me out of my mind.

G. G. Melmoth

rotting wood

It is more like rotten wood, having soaked too long in water. More like stale food, once so succulent and fresh, now over ripe and revolting.
Yes it was a pretty sight by the river bed; I sat there forever for it was the nicest I had ever felt. But the river was damp, and my bones are mortal. I rot here as old bark; I rot here under my sweet smelling skin.
It keeps going on and on, infernal train, tortuous ticking of time. Though I sit and just watch it pass like some boat on the water while I’m on the river bed.

G.G. Melmoth