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Futile?

I completed an academic writing workshop last week and focused on my rhetorical memoir creative non-fiction technique...humor me for a few posts while I practice.

What am I doing? The descent is steep enough that my feet are slipping. Working around these downed trees makes me nervous; if I trip and tumble how will this Eastwood audiobook play out in my head? One part of me wants to rest in what I have accomplished, to live within the perspective that what I have is all bonus time. But that mindset limits the aura, the potential for possibilities well outside the boundaries of accepting the present. The run is over, the stretching didn't have much effect, and my legs are bleeding from the bushwhack through brush and branches. I'm not a naturalist and don't know what poison sumac, oak or ivy looks like. So the itch is all over. A fleeting thought says a man my age and in my position shouldn't thrash his legs trail running. But another glimmer inside says rough trail keeps me alive and presents the adventures yet to come. It's either the reality of the moment or staying available, ready to embrace the next adventure.

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