Echoes and Hollows Swathed in Perhaps

The year is winding down; again. Time playing with cycles or perhaps, cycles playing at time.

Cycles: first he recalls some sort of tricycle, then, many years later a bicycle, then another, but, although he’s always kind of wanted one, he’s never had a motorcycle. Too dangerous according to the wife who’d drained him, and not in a good way (at least not frequently). Actually, the locomotive cycles have been rites of passage and thus, perhaps, an important rite had been missed. Perhaps that explains the inner hollow he’s never managed to fill.

Cycles, the other kind, so many now. Sometimes it feels as though they’ve been too many. Too many places and faces and feelings lost to time. At other times though, infinity and eternity croon to him, reminding him that there’s so much yet to see, to do, to suffer, to learn, to try to help resolve; perhaps, in Heinlein’s words, time enough for love, but his experiences in that area always ring hollow. Perhaps, given time; and he seems to have a great deal of it left, …. Who knows?

Hollows make interesting sounds varying profoundly depending on the surrounding media. But almost always tracing shadowy echoes. Perhaps hollows aren’t empty at all.

Is that, perhaps, an insightful hint?
_______

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