The world almost seems too immense - engulfing you body and soul in what seems almost a sea of unknowns and shadowy posibilities.
It almost feels sometimes like if you look in the mirror long enough, your form will melt away and reveal who or what you really are. Fire burning away within a hollow cask that eventually rots and whithers into nothingness, or dirt.
The question of who i am and what i'm for often rears it's head when i least expect it - casting me into as dark a hole as i can manage to dig myself into and holding the ladder just far enough away that though within grasping distance my arms flail uselessly at the empty air.
What is it all for? Who knows. Who cares. Ultimately it all comes down to a simple fact: life is a journey, not a destination. Words made famous that nevertheless hold an inordinate amount of truth. There's never been a time in my life when i've doubted the veracity of that elucidation - but times like these call into question whose journey it is, and whether it is our place or indeed within our ability to change ships, switch rivers, or even simply enjoy and accept.
Surely the latter at least. Right?
The presupposition that all is meant t o be one way or the other and that all will end well regardless of present circumstance is a conjecture I hesitate to accept. Maybe it's all crap. Maybe it all ends as it seems to begin - one huge startling realization that all we had previously accepted as knowledge and truth is wrong. You find yourself instead ashamed to have thought so simplistically, and ultimately accept the definitive nature of your being - which you had previously been unaware of. The escape from the womb becomes an analogy for our death, only in reverse. Our certainty of our own existence and the world around us fades into the murky acceptance of a fate within the ground.
If there is a soul, what does it look like? What does it look like? Where is it hiding.