I don’t want it to end, I really don’t.
All these years, in all these forms, speaking and thinking and acting in all these different ways. Over and over again, surging up like surf. With each death you forget everything except the one thing, and that knowledge grows in you, bleeds through you–both as you age in a body and as you age as a soul.
Love and laughter float atop a crooked hurt. That’s not the eternal Truth; that’s just the lay when I stand alone on this snoring beach where scud and jetsam and seaweed tangle and splay along soft, smooth off-white sands. The eternal Truth? Oh, well, hard to say, hard to quite catch, more like a song/sunbeam blaring out of everywhere. One things for sure: the Eternal, the Almighty, the Infinite, the Unstoppable: that’s gentle, kind, unable to harm, capable only of helping, of lifting up, of cherishing, rejoicing, loving by listening, hearing, caring.
Empires come and go, but some are better than others. A well-functioning bureaucracy, a government where the law serves everyone equal: that’s a worth ideal and some places and times get closer than others. Cynicism and chauvinism are two edges of the same sword: laziness in the face of complexity: an unwillingness to accept responsibility for our role in the collective good.
I’d wanted us to do more. I’d wanted further permutations. In some sense, it felt like we were finally hitting our stride. I’d pictured an aeon of creation, play, sharing, exploring in ideas, art, timespace, worlds natural and artificial. But I guess the bellow of the wounded boar’s gonna win the day. There’s the wounded boar inside a human chest/gut that gnashes and grunts, thrashing its bloodied tusks madcap every which way. It feels hurt. It feels assailed. It’s lashing out. It’s too close to too many nuclear arsenals pointed at each other, too much greedy negligence, too much lazy thievery.
Anyway, still I look for some way through this narrow opening. It’s not the end of the world for the world to end–they’ll be other worlds. But I’ve fallen in love with this one, with this adventure here on planet earth in human form. I’d wanted to travel with everyone to the end of these possibilities. Naturally, one never gets to the end of possibilities, but I’d wanted to go much further. Maybe it’s yet possible; but today I feel so sleepy, like the world’s rocking me to sleep, telling me to forget it, to let it go,
Not really sure what that means except that I’ve lost all fight. I can’t stop this day from taking me down, can’t stop the broken night from reclaiming me with her cold claws. Not an evil, nothing sinister, only another body/mind that’s reached its end. But this time there’s something new, some slight worry, some tiny question:
No more, God? No more time to be this type of watcher? No more evolution for us clever monkeys with our fingers caught once again in the snapping lid of a heavy earthen cookie jar? Or what? You won’t say; you just tell me it’s not up to me this time, that I’m being called back.
What wears out first? The body? The mind? The heart? Well, life’s full of variety.
Author: Ponce de Leon, wandering on the edge of quiet town by the slouching sea.
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