Comme Mc Carthy

he thought about it, standing in the cold stream, starting to feel numb from the ankles up - wondering what might happen to him and the ones he loved. the cold water was painful but at the same time it striked him with a sharp sense of nothingness. here i stand before you, he thought, or said loudly, here i am, stripped bare from all illusions and good thoughts, the memory of good deeds now fading away like the smell of a bonfire.
he thought of a time when everything seemed easier, even pain or relief, and this time seemed now like it belonged to someone else's memories. how hard can one be beat down and keep moving forward, he wondered. how long until any sense of revolt would become pointless - and he knew that, just by thinking that way, he was already giving way to a much darker form of relief.
he thought he saw a trout running down the current. but there was no fish in the dead and yet vivid stream. no fish at all. he'd heard his father say something like that once : there is no fish in the water, we don't need to stop. something like that.
keep moving. keep heading wherever it is you're going.
(but what route ?)
(what route ?)