What does it mean to wander one's city,
Following paths that appears rewarding?
Where appearance is the very fabric
of our own reward pathways.
With no destiny
what determines aimless wandering?
What does my inclination collapse into the world,
What is it that our will envelopes? Our many drives
are bundled into what appears; we are carried
along a path, arbitrary or otherwise,
Only for one drive's will to be usurped
by the sweet vista, or strange nostalgia
which spoke to the whims of another.
Is there a collective unconscious, are there connections
which whisper unto our subordinates?
Something as simple as intuition or god;
Gut feeling, divine touch. Either being immanent enough
to qualify one's environment by.