A contradiction, maybe. A paradox at the least.
Deep in my soul lies a question, words unformed. It’s as if only an answer will clarify its edges. Therein lies the writer’s task: to dig in heart’s caverns, to sift out the sediment knowledge and reveal… something.
But what is it? What is it?
In simplest form, it is a question of the world. It is as metaphysical as ethical. A question of the real and of how to live accordingly.
It is a struggle of circumstance. “circum,” prefix. from Latin, “around.” “stance,” noun. from “stand.”
So what is around me? Where do I stand?
What do you do when your heart is captivated by both? There is such good in the world. There’s coffee shops and sunsets and roadtrips. There’s airplanes and passport and new songs and old songs. And there are living, breathing people, reasons to love the world for what it is.
And yet, between Evil Geniuses, 70,000 Fathoms of open water beneath me, and a sky of dying stars, it seems there is no better advice than to kick and scream your way through living. The numbing call of technology’s sirens would love nothing better than a second of unprotest, a chance to placate. No. I will not go gentle into that good night.
“Welcome to the planet, welcome to existence. Everyone’s here… what happens next?”
Here we live. Here we stand, we can do no other. Questions, even unformed ones, do not stop the setting sun. Sunset questions are surely the best ones. They call out through dying light.
A contradiction, maybe.
A paradox at the least.