Vast as consciousness may become is superseded by infinity and the origin of itself. Otherwise, for me, this life is Hell as in wasteland--a toxic dump.
"Man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" --Robert Browning
Fear constrains us now as a psychological gulag or a stalag of consumption. Our lives expended for the shepherds of greed. The midway events of which are announced by carnival barkers shouting/screaming doom unless you do as I say not as I do . . . Peter & The Wolf . . . ate him eventually.
Momentarily my sense is that I am a stylus upon something so vast that metaphors: a grain of sand or dust mote seem in compare terrifyingly overwhelming.
Yet in this time and place, considering human history, all that is known, becoming and discovered, there is more. We collectively are like the life span of a fruit fly compared to the nest, our once pretty blue and while marble following and orderly course ancient before time was a thought . . .
“Poetry is about the grief. Politics is about the grievance.” --Robert Frost
My point dear friend, is that if you know how to die you will learn the value of life . . . love is a power and force that will vanquish everything eventually.
“A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything but the value of nothing.” --Oscar Wilde
. . . have i learned nothing save that ‘man’ equals Self/Soul/without gender?
I’ve often thought, and still think, St. Francis’s recommendation to embrace a leaper meant me. Self acceptance opens horizons beyond the far one we see.
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