The river can do nothing but flowing, gently pushed forward by its own watery soul.
A changeable soul, same as it never was, that whirls around whatever it meets, clings to it with all his weight and drags it down.
Such is a man’s life: items, knowledge, memories, all of them are anchors that save us from losing our mind in the constant flow of life; you can grasp to them to take a breath and say: “I am what is carrying all of this.”
The more intense and/or painful our personal experiences have been, the more heavily they sink in ourselves.
The build-up of sediments will eventually make the river overflow. A furious event for sure, but it might be less scary, and thus more endurable than the mystery waiting at the mouth: the dissolution in some water more similar to its true nature, yet different in the outer shell.
The remains are witnesses of life that changed its own look. The abandoned robes remind us that our guise would be laid down in the end, too.