By Cath Simard
There is a line we think we see. A line drawn straight, perfectly. But with a deep dark finale, played at the count of three. Past, present, future. Invisible line forming in the valley. Flowing down the mountains, without resistance, our destined end or way. Neurons firing in patterns, building deep intuition. Connected like rivers to mountains, synapses to life. Unknown paths, to unknown stories. Getting lost along the way, will set us free.