I am always home in a port town
Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada

Sometimes there are so many ideas bouncing around in my head that I have to find the internal mute button and try to focus on one thing.

Sometimes it works.

When I look at this picture I see the geology, the chasm, the ocean.
I see the road, the rail, the wires, the railroad ties, the train cars.
I see buildings and jobs and economy.
I see cities and nations that trade via rail and water.
I see leaves changing colour, and seasons beginning and ending and beginning.
I see process in it all.

I see a passageway.
I see a journey.
I see our journey.

I see you, and I see me.
I see we.

All of these threads have a chain of further thoughts, musings, and wanderings offering me, inviting me, to travel along. Every moment there are new threads with new invitations.

And we are as a port town, on the edge of the ocean,
the edge of the sea.

With information and wonders flowing in
through our various faculties
like rail lines of vision,
power lines of sound and touch,
shipping lines of smell,
and roadways of taste,
all converging in this port town,
of me,
of you,
of us.

I am always home in a port town.

Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it. ~ C. S. Lewis

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