Stream of uncounsciousness
You came to the river for wisdom? You're on the wrong track. Old Joe was wrong. The cold, dark river don't know sumpin'.
Unreasoning, unfeeling Eramosa! It keeps on rolling, alright. Keeps leaching winter cold and poison out of these Wellington County hills. Do not superimpose your contemporary human concept of magic onto the inscrutable stream that has carved its way since the last Ice Age.
Philosophically bankrupt, I sat and gazed at the stubborn, mercurial surface. A reflected tree danced before my eyes, bare limbs undulating erotically. I wanted the movement to mean something.
Sentient creatures, we project mindfulness upon the unthinking world. Some posit that humans have evolved to guide our world to a level of higher consciousness.
It's a transparent rationalization for our inveterate meddlesomeness. The planet does not need our ideas, does not not need them. We are a part, peculiar but inessential.
The dancing tree distracted me. All consciousness flowed into my eyes. Fingers manipulated the camera. I stopped reasoning for an ecstatic moment, better than any coherent maxim I could pronounce.
I declare the benefit of unconsciousness! This is my own thought for the day, not the river's. I humbly submit this clamour of a brainy, foolish ape who likes words too much.
