Реальность. Воображаемое и осязаемое. Осязаю ли я предметы, или есть некий зазор, в который втиснулись мои представления об этих предметах? «А зачем об этом задумываться?»— кто-то, может быть, спросит. Но не ясно ли: признав, что зазор есть, я начинаю понимать, что меня окружает далеко не то, что я вижу. И как глупы многие, многие усилия по преодолению препятствий!
Crunchy ice encrusted leather boots.
Crystals of snowy particles invade the nostrils of his nose.
The torrential blizzard whips through his weary bones.
All he wants it to go home.
Home where the fires flicker their beckoning call.
Instead this cold dank place leaves little to the appeal.
He only wishes it weren’t real.
The dreams of home the only thing that keep the warm from the artic cool air.
On he goes like a machine shish slush through the snowy embankment.
Three hundred and two days in this eternal pit of hell.
His nose frigid paralyzed.
On went those dreams of home.
A picture of his family in his pocket.
A small tattered folded drawing that his young daughter drew.
Solitary slightly frozen tear drop.
The ache in his heart.
For a unity,
For a brotherhood,
For a bond of man.
For the safety of his family, and all the families that he would never know.
For all of them he would trudge on.
Through the dankest and darkest nights he would never end his plight.
It was that single solitary dream of home you see
That gave him the fortitude to endure the endless battle.
