But a boulder fell from the center of the earth, burrowing all the way to the spot inches before my feet. I saw it coming, but was neither swift nor cunning enough to meander around it.
I tripped and fell, and it was far from graceful. I skidded and bounced across the pavement like a stone skipping across a placid lake.
Slowly, painfully, I stood from my abatement, dusting off the dirt and cradling my bruises.
Knowledge ran fast and far ahead of my heart. I continued walking.
A separate road, and the clouds thickened. Here, the trees were pointing menacingly. The world was saying, "I don't hear you."
And it didn't. No matter how loud my heart screamed.
So I digressed, and settled with a whisper.
Then came the earthquake that shattered the shackles. The aftershock, the waves upon waves, knocking me flat.
Then I remembered the boulder.
Remembered, because at a time, I had forgotten.
Now, it is miles and miles and miles away.
The earthquake shook it to dust, gave it to the wind, and the wind carried it to the ocean, which swelled and gave, and took it to the other side of the world.
All the while, the ocean is laughing, saying, "I have touched the East and West, and know, therefore, what you do not."
A breath carries this sound to my ears, and I know that it is not condescending, but rather, a promise.
"Hush, my one," He whispers. "Hush."