There were many things he’d never know but imagined and dreamed on all the same; and while he gave time and mind to array of his imaginings, he was guarded not to overthink and trouble on what was not for him to know.
He believed there reason in it all—even when he could not understand, and when reason was no more than enjoyment he received in turning over well-worn thought like streamed-smoothed pebble in his hand; gentle edged, flattened, rounded, and cleaned by steady of water’s current-pass across.
He wore a gentleness, comfort and familiarity, upon his thoughts and dreams that most often returned to give him company in his rest and lent his mind to muse.
He thought of a place he’d never seen; one that felt and seemed as home the same—or could be—though he knew it’d never be.
He thought of woods. He thought of trees—sunlight’s fall between—company of figure and spirit that, too, set his mind to muse; soft elation at the presence, company in place: beautiful dreamings and imaginings when spirit roamed where he would never know.
