Saturday, November 7, 2015

Uncertain Progression

I'm not sure what I'm writing, or why I'm writing at all. (Sometimes, the expression emerging from simply existing is insufficient. More is needed, even if born absent awareness. Even if it appears without point or reason. Even if it, ultimately, means nothing, and is but a shadow… drifting, disconnected from any source.)

I'm not sure why I'm in this life, or where I'm going within it. (Sometimes, I sense a purpose - but for others, not for me. The destination - even the reason itself - remains a question. Eternally. Yet inertial aimlessness - seeking an answer, hoping for something – continues.)

I'm uncertain of past effects, unaware of future consequences. (Sometimes, I look back, and question what I remember. Do shades and shadows of experience color the recollection, distorting its truth? How is a future to be formed, without understanding the path tread … when the next step lacks any thoughtful action, has no driving motivation?)

I'm uneven in the day, embracing of the night. (Sometimes, in light – the glare betrays all. What occurs shouldn't, and wouldn't, without flaws lit and illuminated. The darkness has appeal – the lights’ retreat offering the comfort of obscurity - to which I cling, escape to, hide within, sometimes.)

I'm questioning love’s existence; yet still hope to know it. (Sometimes, the “could be” remains worthy of pursuit, even when it may never be. The possibility - however slight, however doubt clouded - reason enough. The potential existence, just enough. Hungry, yet tentative… timid in expression, desire unspoken, yet a persistently aching void.)

I'm not sure what I'm doing, or why I'm doing it.
And yet, sometimes, I do it anyway.

The purpose or reason, to be: Unknown
The past or future, to hold: Uncertain
The light or dark, to feel: Unresolved
The question or answer, to know: Unclear

I wonder if…
I hope that…
from simply living...
Life can be found.

Modified from original, which was written in 2005

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