Hoc Quoque Finiet

How my spirit cries out for answers. What am I to do? I feel such uncertainty, such wonder, and such want. I am lost, or so my heart would have me feel. Yet still, the heart of my heart whispers gently, Do not fear. And so I know I cannot, and yet I face the struggle with each passing breath.

I am caught between my hope and my desire and my doubt. I want so badly to feel realness, to find a moment of clarity, to find a moment of togetherness, to become one with the peace that I seek.

I want so badly to halt the endless whiplash-spinning of my galactic heritage. I don't want to be stardust anymore. Grant me a panacea of peace in the midst of the endless spiraling suction of a world gone mad with its own folly. I am caught in a web of greedy spacetime; so overtly artificial, yet still so uncannily persistent.

I've had more than enough of it already.

Where we are, and what we are, and how our age will be remembered is unknown to us. My ideas and my dreams, my struggle to pare the veiled layers away from myself; the longing that would have me lobby for a better world, for dearest heart's-peace, and for love to finally take its rightful place as the prodigal king come lately home from lengthy sojourn—how these simple designs float on the surface of my conscious mind, too-delicate pattens drifting on the surface of a soap-bubble.

And yet these swirling patterns are all that I have. They bear my mark, and they are of my design. Whether the case be that I have wrought them in order to realize myself in their swirling shapes—or rather that these patterns are an echo of myself long past, a remnant of the me before I became my present self—it does not matter. I am here and I see them, float with them, reach for them.

At my touch, they fold away into nothing. Sadness cuts me like a wicked blade, shearing off all desires save the one: the want to remain in service of the Love that has birthed these desires, and others like them.

Still I wonder: who writes these words?

Who is the observer that rests comfortably behind the well of my psyche?

I am a cascade, a fall of water on unyielding stone. Surely, I exist in many places at once. Indeed, I am many versions of myself at once, and I wear away this rock of contention with each passing breath. From whence do I come? It is not in my own power that I stand. The world was never mine. My time was never mine, and this is a boon, I think. What little I possess I have merely collected. As to what little I have created, I act merely as steward. Soon enough I will be no longer; soon enough, back to the river and the patterns of the ageless waters. My life is nothing but a dance, come and gone.

Now you see me...

But while I am here, while you look upon my face, know that I take great pleasure in the turning of the wheel of life. Nothing could please me more than the wonder of this place. Well, almost nothing. But I like it here, despite the hurt, and the sorrow, and the need. There is a place for me among the people of Earth, and I weep with them. I know them well and they, me.

One day I'll write something that may touch the hearts of my readers. One day I'll make music that resonates in the souls of my listeners. One day I'll chart the mystery of my people with my song, or my pain, or my love, and so give away my heart like a new bride. I cannot know where my path goes. But for what it's worth I'll walk it, softly, with as much humility and dignity as I can manage.

And that's all. It is enough to breathe in loss and longing, to let it rest gentle in my heart's secret chambers. It is enough to remain myself.

C'est tout.