And there are those who never try; move on, move up, move out, passing the time easily, quickly. Those that exist in a constant state of Over It, long before “it” has even had the chance to be, let alone the chance for someone to be under it, yet some are over it. Those who just sit back and wonder, peacefully, not engaging but constantly a vital part of creating, unbeknownst to them. Those that dance around as if possessed or perhaps inspired by the small man in the red curtained room, speaking in different tongues, though in hindsight easily deciphered. Those who know and are not what they seem. The owls, just like the owls. Those who delicately ask what has been done recently that could be called creative, as if to say that constant discussion and analysis of cycling is not creative enough. As if to say that ‘she walks in beauty, like the night’ is not an apt metaphor despite that it is but a simile. She walks in beauty, like the night(1); as if better to say ‘She was a phantom of delight, when first she gleam’d upon my sight.’(2) She is the beauty, and the phantom, and most certainly the delight.
And she said, “The route was good. Really good. It reminded me to try to not be over everything.” That moment of clarity is so often a jogging of the memory. Those that have known it all along but have smothered its light; those who exude the essence of why and how, without a second thought as to if or should. These are the people who find the routes, and those that ride them when instructed. And those who find the routes, and then find the other routes.
(2) William Wordsworth