I keep finding myself at the end of my proverbial rope, what seems like eternally. I’m finding myself at the end of what seemed like the golden age of many friendships. It seems we don’t have the same sort of time for each other or at least don’t care to. We just keep growing older, or up, or along, or apart, or any other which way, just as we should I suppose.
This relationship rotation has been testing me. It makes me question my competency. Makes me ask what I’m doing wrong. If someone loves me so much, how can’t they care the same? I wish it were as easy and as selfish as that. That they didn’t actually care. Even though that may define more than a few of my withering friendships, I hold tightly (or as tightly as I can, rather) to the idea that we aren’t all at the same stage of our stories anymore. Our focus is well, yet difficultly placed, on seemingly greater responsibilities in every direction.
So I’ll learn to make due with what you’ve given me. What you left me before you snuck out. I’m hoping to make something out of it to show you at our next beginning. But for now, I’m left here at the end, definitely alone.
after all, we are only human, we love to enforce our beliefs with the eons
of faith, war, love and hate that exist in the wake of history’s quietly echoing timeline. it is the only empirical data we have with which to draw conclusions from. that which has gone before us keeps us stable where we are. it provides for us a sense of security.
it gives us comfort to know that we are not the first.
but can there be found solace in the past?
what comfort in an ultimately uncertain history? can we rest in antiquity?
why cast our anchors at the beginning of the journey knowing not how far we must go?
where are we going? what does it mean to be here, now?
what will become of us?
we’ve sought to answer that query too havent we?
with the conjecture of a million years past we project the outcome of our human existance to an inevitable terminus potentially millions of years into the future.
there, in the doldrums where the sands of time meet at the tides of change we find ourselves in a sort of waking purgatory of uncertainty.
the past is the future is the past and over again. there is no yesterday or tomorrow in light of today.
what else could possibly matter? what is the significance of this present?
if you begin at infinity past i’ll begin at infinity future.
at the speed of now we’ll race toward each other colliding in this present moment
and, in such a catastrophic erruption of energetic force, find the quietest peace. knowing that
there we have reached our destination.
there we will find unity in equality
there we will discover that we’ve come to the only conclusion:
there is art at the end.