The River Damsel is pleased to have yet another great guest writer... Mike Sepelak. Mike's mission in life is to wander North Carolina’s waterways and annoy its fishes. From the ancient Appalachians to the Outer banks, 2wt to 10, trout to bass to redfish, he follows where his fly rods lead. And he writes about the journey, and perhaps a little bit more, at Mike’s Gone Fishin'.
Time stops, settles streamside, and watches the water continue to tumble despite its respite. It chuckles in sympathy with the perpetual wash, savoring the irony.
Time knows that it has no hold on this place. No power to stop, or start, or speed or slow the temporal movement along this quiet corridor. This flow has its own rhythm, its own pace, its own clock.
And while Time drives the world that surrounds this silent sanctuary, it makes no impression here. Despite Time’s influence, this place remains pure. This place remains unaffected. Here, Time is ignored.
But Time doesn’t resent this irrelevance. In truth, it revels in it. Time accepts this as a place to unwind. A place where nothing is asked, nothing is expected. Nothing is demanded of Time as it is so urgently everywhere else. These rocks need nothing of Time. They know forever and don’t care.
Time needs this place to recharge. Marching on relentlessly has its cost, its burden. And places like this take that burden and send it downstream, plunge it to oblivion in the bright, cool cascades. For where there is no influence of Time, there is no consequence. Where there is no influence of Time there is no need but to live in the moment. And here there is only the moment. This moment.
Satisfied, Time breathes deeply and reluctantly moves along. The stream remains. This riparian resting place is aware, perhaps, of Time’s passing, but not mindful of it. It simply exists. Here. Now. Water tumbles.