Wednesday, July 16, 2008

In Transit

One It is late; but I am beginning here a something: a ponding brook, a cloud of debris, an opening. The majority of my days as a viable human/ have passed, and I--now the hermit I thought I always wanted to be--am grateful, yet lost. There is in me a quivering understanding of how I got to where I am, moment into moment into moment; but no understanding at all of what comes next. A swirl of humans accompanies me/ on this planet: some of whom I interact with; most of whom I do not know. I have and use a name: a family name, a first name, a middle name, and a chosen-by-me Confirmation name. Yet, I constantly question it/them. Who am I, really? In my imagination there is another me who is a philanthropist, or was a philanthropist. My existence at this moment is an absolute mystery, a mystery which is the result of choices beyond comprehension. The choices include choices I have made, choices of all levels of good and evil. Really, who am I? Why am I? What motivates me to pursue what I pursue? It is late. Rho00116 - Gustav Holst The Planets Op.32 Jupiter

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