crowings

I am swirling about a little abyss. The future is bright and glorious. The past is hard, concrete, siezing. I am in the murky middle.

Some say there is a poverty of beauty in human action, but I think we only try to hide it. I think we are afraid of our own beauty, ashamed of its elegance, we who are imperfect beings. We try so hard. And what do we want? Acceptance? Power? Wisdom? One wishes to be part of the human progression, to make some lasting contribution. One tries without knowing the result. One sees the deep truth at the very heart of things. We distort, we destroy, we hurt one another, but that is the nature of change. We strive, moving and creating, always something new to explore, something old to preserve, we grabbers and holders. And when the pieces slip away we feel pain.

So what is there that is new?

Sometimes I feel a part of myself giving way, collapsing into the vacuum, and sometimes I feel ineffable. My dreams lay always on the horizon. I can smile at them, even through the heaviest and darkest shrouds. I feel the weather as it moves across the world. It tells me every despair brings hope, and every hope despairs. I talk to the wind as well.

What can't be heard doesn't belong.