Stream of conscious. Streams are a conscious thought, now. I used to collect tadpoles with my brother. I used to pretend the lazy water turned into rapids and my tadpoles were saved from impending death-by-rock-and-water. Just maybe, I saved them. Maybe a river hid behind the stream. Just maybe I grew up and the stream did too.
We often use rivers as a metaphor for life. I think we could use it both ways. We can use life as a metaphor for a river, too. Metaphors go both ways. Wow, that sounds like the title to either a great sci-fi novel or punk band. Gravity forces us to the seven seas. We have one foot in the muddy bank, my friends, and no amount of R&D is going to prove Newton wrong on that. On the flip-side, estuaries spawn rivers and both end up in the deep blue grave. I can get that, too.
Floods of people race to-and-fro. The platforms of Kings Cross, Victoria, and even Putney Bridge are littered with rivers. The parade is endless and alive. The charade is tiresome and immortal. People dry up and return to the earth. We try to ignore gravity (note: not helpful to grab a curtain road whilst on a District Line train). Someone always comes the other way, against the grain. That person, as of late, feels like me. Elbows out, I want to fight like the Salmon of Capistrano.
Truth is, sometimes you just want to float without direction, wander in the stream without fear; catch a tadpole and forget about whether the river is followed by our ocean grave. Stagnant water isn’t always bad, especially if you are simply using it as a metaphor. Maybe I just need a vacation.