Don’t tie your comfortable decisions to light ‘what-ifs.’
I could leave Earth and soar the open sky for the rest of my days. Hurl toward the brink untroubled, drifting home on a stream. I could circle the clouds for eternity, calm, free and satisfied. Pause to bathe in the cold suns magnificence, and drink the breeze of heavens sighs.
But I could not love you more.
It seems plausible now that since even before you came into being have you been stamped with a role and those remarkable, burdensome qualities that all your lost years, drifting, aching over and denying could not remove. As though you are composite of various fragments of star matter and galactic debris dispersed, come together by recognition and ‘twined by choice of kinship and not chance or indolence, or some other traditional aversion of responsibility. Like the birth of a brand new Solar System, and you could not and never have, extinguished that fire in the blood that impels you so ferociously to build, and become the most effective and worthwhile self it is possible to become through consistency of focused and immovable effort. That knows value in acquisition and accumulation if it yields a righteous benefit in the wider domain. Is any one thing unrelated to another, directly or eventually?
And what is it then that charges you so heartily, to connect a whole so determined to split?
That there is so much to be done and you have not enough time to finish it all and will certainly not live long enough to witness the full effect of your service rendered, the protection and continuance of those things you hold most dear on all of Earth. Because no one thing is unrelated to another, and as the blood tides foretell, your smallest increment of action, even the merest whit of intent can expel a tremor across the oblivion for all time. In fact, you have precisely the allocated time as befits the drive and velocity of your Nature. With speed, such glorious ground devouring speed you pass unseen and have taken all before it is ever known you were. A ghost before Death, O lawless hurry, such is the expediency of your wisdom gathering. A thousand years drunk into a gaze, the centuries breathed in and diffuse. A walking tumult of wild ambivalent forces building in energy, surging and inexpressible, a furious humility gorging blind upon the metabolism of its own frightening power, nashing to pieces the self and surrounds, nothing spared but nothing left. And better a presence felt than known, you say. For what will they really know of a truth that does not first excite with sensation touching hot some unexplored avenue of the soul that flinches and relishes the ricochet and stirred up speculations, but is instead glossed with the mechanistic of mounting yesterdays. The mind, ravaged and weary, remembers too much. Wanting to trust in good and rise out of its own abyss, is slow agreeing to what the soul knows however ready to move on what it must. How none do believe in ghosts and yet still tremble at darkened corners with absurd apprehensions that cannot be dismantled by reason or logic. It is an endless string with various knots of degrees of distress over undone things, that threads every fibre and drop of your urgency racked organism. A deafening pulse. An anxious futility. An inborn desperation, unsatisfiable. An expanse of void and vast oceans of endless time about which you dart and deplete and frantically strike at walls imagined. It had been discussed how you hastened from the womb, fled as you flee now all environs of comfort and light, stillness and silence, beyond the pace of your own maturating, wherein your cells contemplated before it was ever contemplatable, what fireflies and other wonders in the shadows and hidden places may lurk that most fear. The good duty to which you would commit, the strength that was to be within your sphere to offer, and the holy chasm that ultimately would be you’re doing being done. You did not hit the ground running but leaped and let the fall advise. The things you approach are already memories, the present is a constant déjà vu, the past is too far to recall or hold significance.
It is Natural ordinance that grim spurns and explosive energies soonest tire. The patience needed to sustain is not yet and can never be known to you, for the very thirst of it only time informs, and for you there is no time. You will go wider and farther than any and will be barely any motion perceive and will arrive at the end just the same as you began, all of suddenly.
With speed and all ones might, or dust. Reign upon reign of dust, O slow world, stand not tall upon nothing and by nothing buried be, but for something fall and be depleted utterly. It will all be returned to dirt and myth at some point or other, and soon after, the very notion of it all, is gone as well. You cannot stand it.
Soul you know well, you know not how to release without struggle what must go, or leaves things lie that best unperturbed. However, touch, that sweeter means of discourse between the better, most secret angels of our Nature, has a live and thrilling effect beyond the intellects pace or reach of understanding. A detached openness immeasurably heightens a primal sensitivity to the woven stories and immediacy of ones surroundings. Our nerves violently, delightedly bristle at a whispers echo, a brush can rupture the Universe and obliterate the history on which we stand. Shadows blind. Skin reflects and winds scream. Warm words inflict like ice and leave burns you carry to new lifetimes. Pupils dilate and dart to capture the dazzling scene and read the moments magnitude. Images peal open as flowers and colours vivify the spirit, coursing, colliding blessing and illuminating through and out of you again. Impressions form and blend views and expressions, reversing and returning in toppled over enmeshments of sublime realisations. It unfolds connections and relation of disparates and opposites, – dependency within individual elements and outcomes, timelessness and unseparableness – sparks bursting alive and intimate, soaring and sincere, threading bonds of affection and meaning through all things. To be simply overwhelmed would be mercy for this is existentially suffocating and excruciating exquisite all at once. The splitting commixture of how in love with living one can be, and how fleeting the act of being and experiencing actually is, expands the loving to a new stratum of torment. Every now hurts for it is already a memory that will devastate for a longer period than which it was enjoyed. How fortunate to know ones debt, and how much better to not care? Though you tried, you are of age where wandering is no longer your default, being irreversibly re-wired with purpose and set to the task, your deep gifts rage unstoppable, and whether you know, you are hurdling to your perfecting so very loved, the planets groan your going. Stars go out by their own tears, the comets are beside themselves, dispersing separate and off-curve to break up and die alone.
The sun… The poor sun looks lower, sadder. Lonely even; it’s lost much of its glow now.
Think of yourself as dead. You have lived your life. Now, take what’s left and live it properly. What doesn’t transmit light creates its own darkness.
Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
Blunt, for we have become tired and soft. Chained to our mistakes. Rebuke tension and avoid the very exercise that increases our strength. But we do not discover our borders by accepting them. Who has wandered their summit untested? How many live lives incomplete, speculating what it’s like to be phenomenal.
My glowing daybreak friend, from the nearest reachable greeting point of this shifting globe I lunge thee toward with unbearable stillness, and will, with all the wishing might of a child at Christmas Eve, for a quicker revolution and that cardinal glimpse of thy gladdening light jovial patience rewards.
Hurling toward thee, o herald of the Auroral sky, I bring news of many revolutions. So much has changed again, I wonder if you’ll perceive me anymore, as much to myself am I unfamiliar anew. But o, the things you must have seen of the world while I slept. How fares my neighbours on the other side? What colours of expression will you carry for the impression? Our reconciliations bear an amnesic appeal, that every colloquy is the first and no other and we are at once the oldest of friends and loving strangers, by attached we know not what.
Can it not be said, that only he can meet calm and relief who is storm-worn and standing and who has not stumbled thus his respiring? Who has allowed his balance to find him by at last keeping still though else nothing is, and having flung to the gusts for the valley below his charge and strain of striving vain. By not gripped by the incertitude of factual things such as winds and aims, they ceased to fatigue him and fell away into vanishment the more he fought them not. He has seen his depths and caring less for heights is happy if he can burn the day sitting on the adret of his Himalaya, to finish a good book and gathering there in himself like the snow and sunlight around him, and passing unhindered through his own being like the tide of ordinance.
Out lying lantern, ye concocted light that steadied once uncertain nights. I have recovered to myself by brave and conscious tensity, – acuity of unmeasured penetrative strength, which, with what small allotment thereof I have explored, settles the outline of all things into a clarity, of fine enough detail to my way now make, the pitch and depths of dark in which resides any no matter. What resolution have I discovered! That I need not now, nor, in truth ever thy penurious aid. But so much the better now I see, and thou art my eyes at night nevermore, but a lonesome, looking star fixed upon the distant black, that shine though you still, attracts a moments bitter wonderment and contributes nothing further that I cannot myself signify or do without. Farewell.