I’m not sure if it does anything.
Should it? Can it?
Is this life the life of wills and their willpower?
Or am I sidetracked by not accepting what already is?
Should it? Is it? Can it be different?
Can I calculate the whisper of what lies here before me, the secret of the secrets sister, the transistor of what might one day be a truth?
Uncouth is so uncool these days, but yet the raw still lies before me. The ocean never changes sway, it just is, and it’s never boring.
I guess it’s terrible, the nature of what might be, us all. Also, though, It’s epic, the nature of what each possibility might befall. It’s incandescent in its scope, it’s journey, it’s mode of movement.
It’s gut wrenching and anxious, it’s beautifully not finished, it’s what we think it might be, even as stories are told to its attrition. It’s within each of our systems. It’s vision. It’s visionary. It’s the heights that care for each and every and you and her and him and how they might and what could be, and what lies over the next hill, the next bend, what fruit might one day grow upon a tree. It’s, …scary.
It’s uncaring. It’s motherly. It’s the dance that goes each way; It’s heavenly. How might it all, if we could just, ‘haps, tap the chance of what it is, the might that just might be. It lies still beyond us in the fog that turns the morn’ to night. It sweeps still like the wisps of air that touch us with the fragrance of their flight. It is what we would will. It is what we could. It is what might, could might, should might, BE.
And all sails are set in its direction, it’s course is the inescapable, going both backward and fore’. It is what we may yet see if just enough of us are ready. Just enough of us are brave. Just enough of us are strong of blood and kindness and see through the blood that it is done. It is a truth that might be, just as the rays shine through the layers of each cosmos, each belief, each light like the leaf of a tree. It is the eternal promise of what we may yet, still, Become.
What it is that we may yet still, BE.