Looking down, all I can see are the chalk lines of my life. There is a path of memory behind, and I can make out that there might be a path cut into the Earth ahead, but what does it mean? An ant on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel will have more idea of the design than I.
But then, perhaps, I am more like Michelangelo, flat on his back, quickly applying the pigment to the chalk-white plaster as it dries all too quick. Each stroke of the brush took into account all of the others, even if they were impossible to see.
But then, he knew where he was going, didn’t he? Do I?
Perhaps it isn’t important to see this chalk drawing of life in its entirety. Perhaps it is better to look out and search for the distant sea. Perhaps it is best to understand the setting. Perhaps it is better to drink in the fragrant summer air and enjoy the view.
Perhaps it is about the vista, not the ground below my feet.
Perhaps I need to look up, not down.
Written for Sue Vincent’s writephoto challenge. The photo at the top is her photo-prompt. She also provided the key word “Vista”.