Ever noticed how when you really need to spend some time alone to reflect, every little sound, or movement is taken by ones mind as a signal that work is over and playtime has begun. Impossible, that's what this mind is.
This evening as I sit alone under canvas with that welcomed cool breeze wafting through the tent, the guide ropes gently slapping against the side poles. I fruitlessly try to conjure up my analytical thought structures as I find it irresistible not to let my eyes wonder, to catch a glimpse of those yellow eyes that watch me from behind the young Haak en Steek, or to turn my eyes to the Boekenhout tree not more than ten meters from my woven Egyptian cotton abode, where the Nagaapie is noisily chattering his discontent at my intrusion into his tree top domain.
My eyes wander into the darkening pool of night searching for new life. Eagerly my mind now turned dream catcher uses these wanderings as a catalyst for explorative thoughts.
This is not a place for analytical thinking; it was created for dreaming, for story telling of those great days past and the excitement of conquests yet to come.
As I stare into the embers of the glowing ash dusted coals and watch the lichen roasting and wheezing as it slowly fills the air with its unique African incense, my dream catcher replays slides of fading sepia pictures of a life gone by and teasingly bright flashes of a future that could be.
I feel my spirit swell and I know that this is the way it is supposed to be.
How is it that one feels so disassociated in the city's created by man, yet so at peace, so at home in the veld were men have not yet built monoliths to their own glory.
I simply love this place and as in all devotion it enslaves me. Here every being feels special and through that feeling, that humble realization that we are all only reflective of what is around us and so how we appear becomes how the place we are in, appears to us. This of course is oneness.
So what of decisions for tomorrow, tonight I sit under a million stars, tonight god blots out the moon, just for a while, just for fun.
The light of the hurricane lamp flickers it yellow dancing light and the moths see the flame, they see their friends burnt and dying in this the irresistible light, yet still they come hopeful that they will do better, that they will make their mark and not only survive, but more importantly be remembered for all eternity as the moth that beat the flame.
Quietly I laugh at myself, laugh at my indoctrinated misconceptions of truth and laugh at my searching for something that all this time, through all my travels, hardships and foolhardy crusades, I already knew.