Sometimes I feel ancient. I would say “old,” but it is not akin to overripe bananas or jeans with too many holes in the wrong places; it’s more like the way a myth is old. I don’t remember how exactly I began or how exactly I changed over time, just that I did and do, again and again. For the most part I know where I am, but it is a curious thing: the path we lead (and leave) to get to the here and now. I imagine many reasons, many revelations, but the imagination can never outrun the truth. It’s like the wild strawberry pictured above: resting upside down on the leaf of a violet, not particularly near a strawberry plant, not particularly fed upon—somewhat whole, resting perhaps not “in peace” but at peace. It’s a curious thing, and I cannot help but wonder how it came to be; it piques the interest like a paper cut stings the flesh. I can feel it, sitting plainly in front of me; I just can’t see it. Of course, at a certain point, along the deepest journeys of the invisible, unknown and forgotten, we all eventually bleed. Bright red, red, red. Even if I want to see the way back, it is difficult at this point. It’s all I can do to see through that red, that real and ready to live or die color. It’s all I can’t do. I fail. And when I am strong, that is when I see that color, no longer ancient but present, my imagination following rather than leading the moment, an ever faithful companion of curious and true things alike.