Catharsis

One foot in front of the other; a ceaseless cascade of background noise, fluctuating in concert with the changing textures under sole. Something about looking down and focusing on the earth blurring beneath you provides a metronome-like effect that enhances the more important foreground sounds. That distant focus seems to have a revealing effect on the subtleties, like the way those magic-eye pictures worked; soften your focus and suddenly a new image presents itself.

The ground passing below is like a magic-eye picture for the ears: tone of voice becomes more potent, pauses in speech seem broader, a rushed thought has more excitement, and all is thus more meaningful. The light seems to change with the passing of each step, waning itself from clear and pervasive to a softening tint, as if just a beat behind the perfect mimicry of the mood; not ominous--just muted, calm, and full of color.

Open emotion makes words seem to float, hanging weightless for just a moment, as they are passed back and forth. Gestures have all but been replaced in favor of those heightened verbal cues. The course remains slow--in a natural way--plodding, and without the distraction of a target destination. The air has an amount of comfort to it, so as to make it unnoticed, bolstered by the subtly ebbing scent of rose.


These are the makings of catharsis;
the pieces of connection;
the beginning of soulful ablution;
the fostering of tribe.



Catharsis is a park... and never noticing the trees.