In The Day of Days
Cycling though our creations we tend to combine, merge, obfuscate and eliminate all sorts of roads in which we have provisioned for ourselves. There is no end in sight. At least that is the belief we uphold fervently. Where would we be without our possessions?
Since time is immaterial where does that leave us other than to create some more? Emboldened, we progress ever onward into an 'unknown' and unknowable future to which we have agreed lies just beyond our senses. Is there not a purpose in mystery, do we not pull the veil so that we can pretend.
As we endure our convictions we become. There is always something else to which our attention becomes drawn. Magically, somehow beyond our conscious and continual efforting of one thing or another.
The play must go on as we act out our wildest fantasies and yet fall victim to such loudly proclaiming "This is not me!".
A lie sustains. A truth evaporates like the morning dew1.
It really is amazing how it all works out2.
As we seem to find 'life' in each and every day, experience takes a hold and requests but another quarter in the mechanism in order to keep it all going, again. And again. And again.
Isn't the amusement ride so worth the expenditure?