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Continuing my way I soon arrive at the Rosenheim River Museum--an outdoor collection of artifacts from the historic past of this part of the Inn River.
There's a fifty-foot flat-bottomed riverboat loaded with antique wooden barrels, some antique machines and several peculiar ballast stones scattered meaningfully about.
The people of Rosenheim take pride in their town’s history and I like it too!
The Inn River, flowing briskly northward at this point, will join the Danube in a hundred or so kilometers. It has been a highway of commerce and culture for centuries and as I wander along it's its banks, I feel myself a particle in the historic flow.
Soon I cross the river on the wide concrete sidewalk of a car-strangled bridge.
The only other pedestrian in sight is a distant young woman pushing a baby carriage.
Pausing for the traffic light at the end of the bridge, I examine the blank, hypnotized expressions on the faces of the drivers and passengers in their temporarily stalled vehicles— their daily “rat-race” seems to have canceled their life-energy leaving them quite empty––such a sad contrast from the human face of the young cyclist on the park bench.
Regretfully, just like you, I am also sometimes a particle in this flow—one of the blank millions driving to work—sharing their familiar mostly pointless pilgrimage through life.
Tomasito, 2009
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