enigma
Standing on my balcony, sober for the first time in a long time, I am more within myself than I have ever been. I’m coming back around. Maybe I’m coming around.
The birds are chirping. The squirrels are squeaking, or whatever it is that they do. They celebrate the death of last night’s storm–or perhaps they mourn it. I don’t speak squirrel, nor do I speak bird. I don’t speak it, but I’m happy to hear it. I wish I could be more like my animal acquaintances: carefree and content. Or are they carefree and content? I don’t know... I don’t speak squirrel, nor do I speak bird.
I would be a hypocrite to sing the blues. I would be a fool to write a somber sonnet. I would be blind to paint a decaying landscape. I am not blue. This is not somber. And nothing decays–only changes. Who’s to say if anything every changes for the worse? Can you say for sure that when a flower withers, it doesn’t change a life for the better–a single soul affected by the beauty if it’s honesty? Can you say, without doubt, that the collapse of a system will not breathe perfection into its replacement?
This neutral spirit can certainly not speak for truth. I am a watcher, and this is all I will ever be. I observe. I will never draw a conclusion–only hypothesize. Answers will never come, but the questions will never cease to astound. I am one with uncertainty. I promise you, a certainty will never be as wonderfully amusing as an enigma.
“The past is history; The future is a mystery; This moment is a gift; That is why this moment is called the present.” --Allan Johnson
Standing on my balcony, sober for the first time in a long time, I am more within myself than I have ever been. I’m coming back around. Maybe I’m coming around.
The birds are chirping. The squirrels are squeaking, or whatever it is that they do. They celebrate the death of last night’s storm–or perhaps they mourn it. I don’t speak squirrel, nor do I speak bird. I don’t speak it, but I’m happy to hear it. I wish I could be more like my animal acquaintances: carefree and content. Or are they carefree and content? I don’t know... I don’t speak squirrel, nor do I speak bird.
I would be a hypocrite to sing the blues. I would be a fool to write a somber sonnet. I would be blind to paint a decaying landscape. I am not blue. This is not somber. And nothing decays–only changes. Who’s to say if anything every changes for the worse? Can you say for sure that when a flower withers, it doesn’t change a life for the better–a single soul affected by the beauty if it’s honesty? Can you say, without doubt, that the collapse of a system will not breathe perfection into its replacement?
This neutral spirit can certainly not speak for truth. I am a watcher, and this is all I will ever be. I observe. I will never draw a conclusion–only hypothesize. Answers will never come, but the questions will never cease to astound. I am one with uncertainty. I promise you, a certainty will never be as wonderfully amusing as an enigma.
“The past is history; The future is a mystery; This moment is a gift; That is why this moment is called the present.” --Allan Johnson
