One of Many

A place exists, in some form or fashion, where the mind can be at peace. It can be found, not easily, and not quickly, but there is a path and the beginning is somewhere near. There are hints of it in books. There is a part of your mind, somewhere down deep way in the back, that seems to vibrate, or pulse, whenever there is a beginning that we just refuse to see. The little inconcistencies in life, the subtle little moments when everything works, those bright little moments in which there doesn't need to be a meaning are parts of this journey. Sometimes it's like coming in from the cold.
Is it the structure of our lives that allow us to really experience them, or is it the structure of our minds? Sometimes we get the two confused. Sometimes the lines blur. Where would we go if our carefully constructed, strategically placed things just fell apart. They may seem like the things we need, but it is the dependence we place upon them, for the most part, that make them a necessity. Is it possible to create this type of place, this home, someplace in our minds? Is it already there? We did not always have our stuff. We had to go somewhere before we did. If we could take a deep breath, close our eyes, and separate ourselves from the surroundings of the physical world, would it be a thing worth trying?
If you could see a place in your mind's eye, a place that existed nowhere but there, maybe it actually would exist. If you wrote it down it would be words on paper, it would exist. This internet exists even though it is only bits of memory and code and electric signals flashing between machines. It exists. Most of us are here every day and yet somewhere else at the same time. Maybe it's not the number of people experiencing it that makes it real. It's here if we are and even if we are not. There must be many places like this. There is one, I mentioned it earlier, that is in my mind now. At least at this moment it is at the surface. It has been there for years. This is not the first time I have seen it, but it is only one of many. Maybe they are infinite. So many things are.
It can be found only on the cold days. It must be cold. The path starts at the edge of a forest that covers a landscape of hills. It is an old forest, this is a thing you can feel. At the beginning there is a horse, he has no name, but the horse knows the way and so I ride him. He walks a winding path in the dim light, very little gets through the thick canopy even on days that aren't cloudy. On these days it always is. There are drifts of snow everywhere, but it doesn't cover the ground. Thr branches catch most of it. It is so quiet here. I hear my breathing and his. I hear the muffled thump of his feet on a carpet of fallen leaves, but there is nothing else to hear. It seems right that way. Hours could go by as he walks around and over hills. Maybe it's only minutes. It doesn't matter. There's no rush. After some amount of time passes, or maybe it doesn't, the place we are headed comes into view. My horse steps out of the forrest and climbs to the top of the hill. This takes longer. The trees caught no snow here so it is a foot deep in places, but he takes his time and we get there. Looking down on the valley we see that there are only a handful of trees. They were not cleared, they just did not grow here. This is not their place. The valley is as long as the bend of the river and as wide as it needs to be. The forrest surrounds it. No one else comes here. Only the horse knows the way, I can never remember it, but the horse only brings me.
Off on the far side of the valley I can see a cabin. The lights are one. I can see smoke coming out of the chimneys on either side of it. It's not a huge place. It is the right size though. I haven't been there yet. It is mine, I know that, but this is as far as I've come. That's ok too. I already know what's there anyway. There's a stable out back for the horse, for when he's not coming to show me the way. There's an old leather chair in a room full of books. There's a fire going. It's not time yet though. I turn back, just like I always do, because now is not the time. It will be home, but it's not home yet. There's a lady that carries my home with her and she's not here. She hasn't seen this place yet. Maybe one day I'll bring her and she'll bring home. There's no rush. There never is. Just looking is enough for now. That's the best part about this place. It doesn't need anything, not even me.