am: That Nietzsche chap once declared, “That which does not kill you only makes you stronger,” but the bogosphere doesn’t work like that.
Nope, not bogs.
While they may not necessarily kill you (and this has yet to be confirmed), they will kill your will to live.
I’m hoping the respite will allow me to clear my aqualungs and, to an extent, my thoughts, which are also filling with moisture, for every time I near the end of a journey, my head starts to cloud over. Some hikers get excited to reach the finality of their goal, but I tend to find myself coagulating with worries and concerns and random ruminations; I’d rather remain out, I think. And so I start to dawdle. Indeed, I’d rather fall short of a goal when the fall is this grand. Finishing a journey is a bittersweet symphony, no doubt(1). And what good is rest, I wondered, if the mind can’t join suit?
pm: As fate would have it, the day would come and go without a single cloud...coming or going. It was completely clear...clearly some sort of cruel trick played by the weather gods. A hot-air balloon (as opposed to those cold-air ones) loafed along the horizon near town earlier in the day, perfecting the picture. Such mellow conditions meant that I was able to rest even easier, so long as I didn’t give too much thought to the last few days that lay ahead. Thankfully, yesterday’s forecast still holds firm today.
There are roughly forty (rough) miles left---a mere hop, skip and jump (over whatever bogs and snow and stiles and stone walls that shall present themselves).
I think I can, I think I can...
But do I really want to?