It's funny,

It's odd,

How our best writings as artists,

Isn't written in our pain or in our joy,

But mostly in our reflection of those times.

When I think about it and wonder why?

I sit and think of how easy the answer is,

LIFE changes.

We are never happy where we are,

There is always something to make us even happier...


So much of the time,

We look elsewhere for everything,

Than being able to just be thankful for the moment.

Thankful for the joy,

As well as the pain.

Sure we can often write about what is going on,

During those moments of change,

But we can never really have it make sense.

Lines that flow only lead to non-resolution...

Isn't this why we write,

For comfort,

For peace,

For resolution,

For enlightenment?

Our imaginations take us to so many places,

But we can never really phantom what life will do,

How the chains of events will unravel,

When at a much later date,

We got exactly what we prayed for...

That for the moment,

Whatever we felt inside us consumed our being to the point

We could not handle the process before us,

To loose our subjectivity,

To forget our empassioned escerpts,

Enough to see things clearly.

Why do we live?

We live now to appreciate the afterlife.

Where all we have now is questioning and suffering?

And there, every want will be gratified.

All will be made known.

But we have to live the now,

To be HUMAN,

To really appreciate what we will have as immortals.

This path is linear,

And every day is a narrowing of our very selves.

We grow from infancy,

Walk, then loose that ability before we die.

In every way, everything narrows,

All but the mind,

And yet we still convince ourselves,

That we can live outside the lanes of our finite-ism.

Everything narrows.

It is only with loss that life is valuable.

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