Some of us live on the boundary line, the slow shuffled measured pace between black/white and the known/unknown, the right/wrong, the tragic/comedic, the coward/hero, the stupid and the bright. It is not a striving for equilibrium but a condensation of our divided Being funneled to a finite place on this planet where we roost to watch the affairs of our fellow creatures. It is a precarious vantage point--neither here nor there but in between. It was never a choice we would have made if we had had the choice.
For some of us the leap to a conclusion is a slow emergence from
unfathomable depths to make our way in a languid drift to a faraway shore.
It is why we are old before our time, for the blustery skies we fly in
batter our very souls. It is why we are quiet for our solitude exists in
a noisy crowd and has no answer to what it sees. It is bewildered by
the pain of others demanding reason and yet others suffocating in emotion.
It is partly nature and partly circumstance that held us in what we
thought was confusion but was in reality capacity. It was a clarity
defined by images and not thought. It was a clarity of emotion and not
reason. But the painful translation of that clarity to reason brings
depths of understanding for those who live in-between and can suffer the
journey on that fragile bridge from here to there.
There are not many who have the time to think. And for those of us who do, it is our curse to do so.
Hence the painters, the poets, the writers, the philosophers, the mystics and the misfits. And even the mad, for they dance and sing and cry and rage in memory and prophesy where most have never been and would never choose to go.
What then is happiness to those who skip-trip to the heavens? And does it even matter. Predestined perhaps to lives of living in between, they play translators to a universe few seek to understand. They bleed their love at daybreak and gather it again at nightfall from the stars to strew across the vast clamoring daylight. They never had a choice.
There are not many who have the time to think. And for those of us who do, it is our curse to do so.
Hence the painters, the poets, the writers, the philosophers, the mystics and the misfits. And even the mad, for they dance and sing and cry and rage in memory and prophesy where most have never been and would never choose to go.
What then is happiness to those who skip-trip to the heavens? And does it even matter. Predestined perhaps to lives of living in between, they play translators to a universe few seek to understand. They bleed their love at daybreak and gather it again at nightfall from the stars to strew across the vast clamoring daylight. They never had a choice.
