…I mused an eon of my life one evening, on the purpose of existence and on what leaves me with the most certainty, those being both birth and death; as well as that which gives me the least certainty - the life that falls in between. For, in my quest to understand the world, I am continually preempted by my own thought of what, in the meantime, I am to do in it.
We unfurl parchments of love, like recipes conjured through charts and maps by wayfaring spirits in their navigation of uncertainty; with it’s pendulous swells and troughs, writhing storms to the curved horizon of placidity. In our ecstasy or agony, whichever compels us to reach to the heavens for answers, from the black firmament, rains down the white light of stars.
Besotted with beauty, we invent our own answers – swinging angrily at the words, despairing, disillusioned or disinterested. It is not what we hear, but that we listen – “purpose” is the captain of our ship. The journey is long, and the captain seeks only the safe passage of moments in the timeless sea of uncertainty. The meaning of our lives is unveiled through the examination of purpose in others...the mirror of meaning.
I became deluded by my own idea that happiness is an infrequent preoccupation of life, a proverbial “comma” to a long-winded sentence; a quick paradise of dust kicked up by God stepping through a parched desert. I thought how a moment of happiness seems to pass so quickly and yet, how our disappointments seem to echo through deep valleys of consciousness.
As life progresses there is this proclivity to toil with the recollection of our sadness, leaving us amidst a talus of strife. I asked myself, could it be that the altar of happiness is built on the ruins of sorrow? That the happiness we deserve is measured by the high mark of our grief – layers for which we labor the years to build.
Dwell not in grief over friends and strangers, lovers and strays. Adam named us all in the dawn of the pre-eternal and we have all known each other for very, very long time, and yet nary a moment of mingling. These port-o-calls are neither long nor short - whether church bell at midnight, camel bell, or the wind whistling through the halyards of a listing ship.
Our lucubrating in any language, by keyboard or blunting pencil earns no more than the meaning of its pause. Mingle with the secret culture of those who form silence with their lips and tongues and whose punctuation is set deftly by deep and bespeckled eyes. The sextant of the soul navigates these stars and it takes but a gentle turn of the helm, to spin the heavens.
From the bow of my vessel, I see an Albatross, 'tis me; and that awareness is rooted in the depth of ages below my hull, not the duration of the encounter. My soul has sailed on many ships. Oh seekers of meaning, you’d sooner capsize and drown alone in a deep ocean of unspeakable love than slip safely across the shallow pond of dalliance.
Life drifts into the hallow sound of a departing reflection in my eyes. It sails not away, but deeper into the distance of my boundless ocean heart, where no beacon of mine, nor fair word will ever find.
We unfurl parchments of love, like recipes conjured through charts and maps by wayfaring spirits in their navigation of uncertainty; with it’s pendulous swells and troughs, writhing storms to the curved horizon of placidity. In our ecstasy or agony, whichever compels us to reach to the heavens for answers, from the black firmament, rains down the white light of stars.
Besotted with beauty, we invent our own answers – swinging angrily at the words, despairing, disillusioned or disinterested. It is not what we hear, but that we listen – “purpose” is the captain of our ship. The journey is long, and the captain seeks only the safe passage of moments in the timeless sea of uncertainty. The meaning of our lives is unveiled through the examination of purpose in others...the mirror of meaning.
I became deluded by my own idea that happiness is an infrequent preoccupation of life, a proverbial “comma” to a long-winded sentence; a quick paradise of dust kicked up by God stepping through a parched desert. I thought how a moment of happiness seems to pass so quickly and yet, how our disappointments seem to echo through deep valleys of consciousness.
As life progresses there is this proclivity to toil with the recollection of our sadness, leaving us amidst a talus of strife. I asked myself, could it be that the altar of happiness is built on the ruins of sorrow? That the happiness we deserve is measured by the high mark of our grief – layers for which we labor the years to build.
Dwell not in grief over friends and strangers, lovers and strays. Adam named us all in the dawn of the pre-eternal and we have all known each other for very, very long time, and yet nary a moment of mingling. These port-o-calls are neither long nor short - whether church bell at midnight, camel bell, or the wind whistling through the halyards of a listing ship.
Our lucubrating in any language, by keyboard or blunting pencil earns no more than the meaning of its pause. Mingle with the secret culture of those who form silence with their lips and tongues and whose punctuation is set deftly by deep and bespeckled eyes. The sextant of the soul navigates these stars and it takes but a gentle turn of the helm, to spin the heavens.
From the bow of my vessel, I see an Albatross, 'tis me; and that awareness is rooted in the depth of ages below my hull, not the duration of the encounter. My soul has sailed on many ships. Oh seekers of meaning, you’d sooner capsize and drown alone in a deep ocean of unspeakable love than slip safely across the shallow pond of dalliance.
Life drifts into the hallow sound of a departing reflection in my eyes. It sails not away, but deeper into the distance of my boundless ocean heart, where no beacon of mine, nor fair word will ever find.
2 comments:
every sentence is a gem.. this is a most beautiful write..
This. Thank you.
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