To find myself, I have sojourned past the abysmal limits of the earth. I have questioned the mountains, asked if they find their meaning beyond the clouds. I inquired if the early sunrise kiss enlightens them to the extent of their darkest caves. I met the ostriches to know why they chose to settled for the grounds while their peers took flight, why they registered their wings for races. I have asked the giant trees why they thought their path could only be higher, farther and farther from the grounds that birth them. Why do they crave to reach the sun, as if it’s rays stray from grasses?
Billions of sapiens roaming the earth, all on differing voyage as if we don’t all have the same eyes, bones and viscera. How did we come about eight billion finger prints? How is this planet rock a home to more than the exhaustive lens of science has discovered? How is there life? What is life, if there is so much, as much as there is one?
All in the name to encounter my blueprint, I have looked beyond the outward, even pilgrimed the wilderness of my inwards. It saddens to declare that nothing, not one calling has lit my heart on fire. Pouring my soul into every affair, investigating whether my essence matches the core of the true labor. Many have mentioned that life is simply picking and doing, tastelessly killing time till the end. Unfortunately, the stream of my soul dries up at the thought of that. Will I miss out on life by my indecision?
A peculiar individual proposed I ask for the manual from the maker. The proposition is that regardless of our intrinsic individual our duality has to flourish for fulfillment, the soul must feel at home and home is only made by love. Where do find we love? Trust me, I have made love for myself- self-love they call it. Still, its faults claw at my hungry spirit at almost every turn, do I have to settle for a love that knows not how to love? I heard the maker is the love that we all attempt.
Time ticks against my inquiry, still I roam thirsty. They say the silver lining is that there is enough labor to run through the miniscule life of man, I should find peace in my freedom and satisfy the gods of means. The gods that promise satiation when I serve them with all the tools I am born with. Some even say the gods are all that matter, the remuneration for my service will be the light to my path, the carriage for the road. They often insinuate living is outside of work, you sacrifice your life for a slice of leisure, man’s essence outside all the talents they devote to the gods of means.
I wonder, how much truth is found in all of this? Isn’t living about living right? Have you lived if it’s all wrong?
I have heard in quite a number of places that the choice is mine. My autonomy inherently faultless. Meaning, I should bother less about the ‘what’ and just get on with whatever. But decisions are only impeccable when you control the implication. So, I question this line of thought, for it looks like we are all burdened by the forces of this world.
Here, I rest my pen, not in resignation, but to exploit a well-rested mind.
