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Little River, Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee. Out of a lifting mist the water comes down, flanked and studded with perfect greens. It is pulled on a gradual gradient, and leaves a trail with each step, dragging a memory backward. The life of it's flow should be beautiful, but I find it a little cold, a little remote. Looking at the boulders, strewn and fallen in the flow, I think of my journey downriver. They are like pieces of me, broken off with each disappointment, each betrayal along the way. They stand like lessons learned, remnants of selflessness meets selfishness...bad decisions and weakness. They stand as a lesson to make myself harder, even if I don't want to be, because what is true in nature is not always true in me. But being true litters the streambed, back as far as I can see. If each had a name, they would stand as virtues lost, lessons learned. The perfect greens belie a bittersweet place; I'll leave it's beauty for another time.
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