I’ve been thinking lately, about the weight of things. The things we collect along the way. And those things we treasure and spend our lives trying to preserve. All the while “things fall apart” and the true weight of what we carry cannot be quantified in terms of mass. I once was sure that the measure of a man was in how much he could carry on his shoulders. Recently I have doubted much what I once thought I knew. The thought has struck me that perhaps the measure of a man is actually in the portions of his soul he gives to others. And in what he chooses to keep for himself when others need it more. Lately I’ve been wishing for innocence and yearning for an unfettered sense of joy. For a gateway to awe and a sense of eternity. For a return to the wonder I felt as a child.
Staggered I stand on the edge of that endless expanse separating me from my goal. I envision the bridge that would close the gap, and plot its construction, yet in my black heart I know that it is a bridge I burned myself while I stood upon it, baggage in hand.
I’ve searched high and low for a treasure to call my own. Following the sun by day and a pillar of fire by night, or was it the the handle of the dipping gourd? Are these just an illusion, lights in the sky to look upon, which fade the moment you reach for them like a rainbow in the mist?
The sun is real, for it still shines, even swaddled in clouds of rain. Even in the eyes of the blind it shines, though I cannot answer why. Though we may not see it, we believe it is still there. The dark is overpowering, but even it can only hide the sunlight for so long. Eventually the sun must come out again to bless the flowers and make them grow. I must believe this. It is more than just a thought.
The clouds which hide the sun bring raindrops that are needed too, no matter how much we hate to get wet. Raindrops water flowers and hide their tears as well. In the night the water washes away the the heat but also the stains left by the day. I wish I could accept the water, cleansing, flowing, ever in a state of change. The freshness of the dew upon the blades of grass is to me like blood upon the sharpened steel.
I think of my life as an endless search. A quest for gold if you will. But at the end of the rainbow the pot I found was filled with the ashes of everything that I burned to get that which I was sure I had to have. Burned to keep me warm at night, to illuminate my footsteps on a treacherous path. The light was my guide, but I think now that I was wrong about its nature. Maybe all I have allowed to shape and mold me and pull me towards it was really a beacon flashing out its warning: Danger! sharp rocks! do not come near! Yet here I am, the shipwrecked sailor huddled at the base of the lighthouse peering upwards, and wondering how I ever mistook a lantern for the sun. At last the shadows cast by the sun have blotted out their maker. Perhaps I slip back into the tide and relinquish myself to their cold embrace. Perhaps in the darkness I will finally see clear. I think and I dream.
In my dreams I drift, untethered and without guidance, in an eternal ocean of night, lost in the blankness of a darkness that never ends.
I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking.