there is always a war waging within the one who wavers on a whim. between one choice and another or even of one and the many, of the line walking that falls onto either side at either time and sees back the line but cannot always find the footing toward it.
perhaps it was the feeling of fancy, that there would be something more when arrived at or that the getting there was so much of a fantasy that nothing when found would ever amount to the imagination of a far away mind.
war is not always meant in walking, in holding shields or the unveiled sword but rather looking one way and then another and having the mind to see that feet don’t always walk along of their own accord. so as to return to human and choice, human and hand, the mold and holding its shape, shaping.
perhaps there is not one and in the many the one can be found .. so that a silent answer there may be all we can see, that of cerebrum and cerebellum it is both not enough and enough of a marvel to mystify the meaning that would allow one to exist on in it forever.