I sit. Here at this window I can watch the storms roll in over the valley;
vast curtains of rain that seem to hang motionless in the air until,
gradually, the undulating draperies move in closer and engulf the world in
motion. I sit and watch the wintery snow-dead valley turn green in the
spring, little by little, until it fairly bursts with the somethingness of
life; the summer of life.
There are no levels here in the valley. There are no static patterns of
value and there is no Dynamic Quality to be found no matter how one might
look. Everything just is. Simply is. The rains come and go and the sun
shines brightly when the clouds roll away. I watch the people about their
business, hurrying here and scurrying there. Dead people all, hoping that by
hurrying along their way, death might forget them for a moment or two. Not a
chance. No one cheats here, not when it comes to the real thing.
I experience. Throughout my life my meager dreams came true and did not and
I see now that none of it really mattered at all and in fact the things that
did really matter I passed by, carelessly, as if they would always be there
for me to come back to. Experience doesn't work like that though. It's a
one-time deal. No second chances. Those people who I wished I could have
known better but never had the time, well, those people are gone now and I
will never have the time, ever. Not in this life.
I suffer. I see how things are and I see how they could be and somewhere in
between I discover that I have lost my way. Worse, I have failed to clearly
define the path I have chosen and so there is no way back home again. I
thought I would remember all the twists and turns that have been taken but
intellect doesn't work like that, at least not for me. And so here I am. No
one here needs me around yet I have nowhere else to go, so suffer my words
just a bit; words of a man who has come to the end of a long journey and yet
knows not how to rest.
She had tears in her eyes the last time we parted, for she knew, we knew,
our parting was as deep as the ocean that she had never seen. We couldn't
bring ourselves to say goodbye, but pretended this parting was like any
other we'd experienced. It wasn't. I watched the light go out of her eyes
and the world grew dark as one last tear trickled down her cheek. I held her
just a while before calling the nurse.
Can you tell me, anyone, where does such sorrow come from? Was it always
there deep inside of me, waiting to surface? Elephants weep, they say, but
surely if they felt such exquisite sorrow as we they would all fling
themselves into tar pits and off cliffs rather than face such anguish and
there would be no more elephants to weep, to bother the universe with tears
of uselessness. What keeps us from doing the same? I honestly can't say.
I wonder. Sometimes it seems as if my life never really happened at all.
There are no statues of me anywhere and no one seems to know my name. What I
know, no one else cares to know, or so it seems. I reach out and no one is
close to me, yet were they ever? Did I ever let them get close to me?
I suppose this intellect we seek to define drives the hard bargain.
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