And who can argue for the living when confronted with the grave need to litigate for the dead?
Where do we go from here as we look off the face of this ledge?
Walk away, shake our head, go to bed and blame the issues on what’s wrong in other peoples’ heads.
What good does this do for the land of the living? Where are the debates of the corporeal? And why is it that those with whom we disagree somehow reside in a lesser reality?
Why bother to debate about the unborn or where we go when we die when the land of the living has become but a standstill, where even reason has found its capacity to cry?
“Oh, let’s have a debate,” they’ll say, but it disintegrates the moment of invoking things of the transcendent. We muddy our own waters with our dual-mindedness of both wanting to be right and to prove others wrong – yet, we like to nod our heads and go along with all those with charisma who play the song: it’s not us who are lost but them. Thus, it’s not me who is lost but him. Thus, the problems that exist are among those things outside of myself.
How dangerous it is to live in the fantastical lands such as these, where behind every door there must be some new mystery? The search is never over; the investigation never done, and the anticipation of the revelatory moment somehow still yet to be won…
But, alas, as to be expected with such things—we mustn’t concern ourselves with these things—rather, look another way to find a friend, and together we’ll find our fellowship in scapegoating a common foe.
We’ll vent and fume before sighing and saying, “What is life but full of woes?”
Oh, how we sow and sow—sometimes even forgetting to reap…even secretly, restraining ourselves from making a peep about the disharmony of the cycle. Why have we become so maniacal? Because of our love to sow and bask in the flow of more and more – after all, what is all of our work for?
This question takes a dark turn when the sowing has been overdone. There’s no land left to till, and no straw to continue to feed the spinning wheel—what is one to do when idleness creeps into one’s hands? Exercise patience, sort the harvest, and pursue leisure as a source of gain? A laughable notion, as absurd as turning water into rain, fears into pain, and grain into gold…but, then again, we are all getting old; it’s possible the same rules no longer hold…to venture closer to the edge and peer a bit further or to stay and stand firm in the trust bestowed from the ground beneath our feet—what if your feet begin to sink?
Would you fight and climb or say everything’s all fine; cry out to the world, “are we all losing our minds?” Then turn back around and continue with the dinner table discourse.