Thus Far

There is a point to the pointless, it is in the process of getting from 'here' to 'there' which counts, not the departure or arrival. The process is the journey and within that journey lies the answers that are so dear to the heart. Within the soul of man, eternity comes alive and seeks it's revenge upon the wanting. Nothing reveals itself like the revealer of all time and place and when enlightenment knocks on the door, the house suddenly becomes quite and empty. Empty and devoid of movement, desire, impulses and urges. No one answers the call which life exists for. Unfulfilled, will it be turned away as usual, or will the wings of flight open and dissipate upon the ether of life itself.

Nothing stands in the way of experience. Nothing stands in the way of nothing. Either extreme creates the hell in which birth and death take root and flight. Beyond the wall lie other walls, to be conquered, overcome and mastered. When the mastering of the self becomes reality, everything else blurs in comparison. The depth of life is shallow, and imagination, as the fine brush it is, fills in all gaps with color and life. Though it is not the balancer, come to reap, it remains pleasant enough to continue embodiment. Rising from the grave escapes us when living is all that could possibly exist. Beyond the hand of fate, what other hands are neglected in the sight of dementia.

There is purpose and fulfillment. Becoming whole, we relish the comforts of success. In that success we continue to die and die again until finally, the end result becomes dear. Moving upon the stream of life, pictures come alive with color and depth. Eventually, it becomes at one again, only to arise and create life all over again. Constantly coming and going, the solace is everlasting. No matter the outward demonstration, nothing changes for in it's expression we look with contentment at our own unique heritage. We have made it, and thus far, it has made us.

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