writing home

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Am I drawn into wilderness because I’m pioneering; or I’m lost?

Whatever. I’m just drawn. And I don’t want to be inhibited by needing
to make sense briefly.

You’d think, though, that trekking where no one’s gone apparently is mistaken.

How many have been here—finding no guidance anymore—just insatiably drawn into horizons?

They loved flourishing, then died unknown, like so many flowers—like most all life that’s not given fossil evidence by happenstance, nor leaves a mark later known.

This isn’t secret vanity. It’s just that most life capable of knowing itself is never known otherwise, while most life is incapable of knowing anything—though all intelligent life is capable of selecting within its capability: to eat it or not. Behold the presence, flee, fight. Mate? no. Live for prudent longings? Go for It all: heights, depths, inner reaches?

We grow up (please), achieve a lot (maybe), pay forward (do so),
move on (reconcile).

Love that learning never ends (until you won’t know it did).

Life gives all conceivable possibility of being, next through you.

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