All this. The writing. The fighting. The bailing and sorting. All of it is to fend off, to hold at bay that which I can’t honestly accept. I know it. I can tell you roughly when it will happen, but I can’t honestly accept that I will die.
My unwillingness is part of my process. I acknowledge it, consider it as often as daily. But still, I can’t accept it.
Perhaps that’s okay. Maybe that’s my way of feeling it. Perhaps the coexisting knowledge and the unavailing, unable acceptance are set in contrast to highlight for me the value of this beautiful, maddening, moving and exhausting existence. It’s possible that these countervailing internal realities provide propulsion and chip away at resistance.
I’m more tired than I used to be and strangely more motivated to leave some essential mark on the landscape of my life. It’s possible this is the result of a desire to stretch my finite to infinite. I could be trying to extend my influence beyond my horizon. Seeking such validation nakedly is often viewed as shallow but I’m okay with the idea.
Problem is I don’t know that life will allow me understanding. It seems it will find new ways to slip my grip if I’m ever able to grasp it and wrangle it for so much as a moment. The meaning I give to the experience may be all I’m afforded. Might be all any of us are. If so I’ll know this, though wishing and wanting it ever to have been more, I’ll die knowing I’d never want it any other. I’ll know mine was a fortunate life. Were I to die before typing this line I can assure you it would be the passing of a lucky man who was given his share and then some of love and experience and challenge and comfort.
I don’t know what all this is for and I don’t know what it is that pushes me. I know however that life is short and it would be if lived in triplicate. I can’t stop thinking and won’t stop looking for meaning I know will elude me.
It’s in how I tell my tales
All of it
All of me is there
If you are ever curious
I measure my sorrow in tears
I measure my joy with them as well
Joy is in the laughs
As is some pain
I measure my love in work
And in hugs and kisses
Love is in kind words
It’s even found buried in hard ones
My anger is measured by words unspoken
And by words hidden away until no one is looking
Uttered loud enough for only me to hear
Anger I find is ignored with great effort, risking great peril
My thoughts are fleeting and measured by the sentence
I fill my glass of thoughts that come slowly
Then I pour out my glass all at once
I clean it and put it away.
I enjoy accomplishments
But they don’t tell any tale beyond the obvious
Accomplishment can’t sustain joy
Accomplishment measures accomplishment and little more
Experience is it’s own reward and should be noted
It is not to be questioned or diminished
A trip around the world can contain less experience than an evening on a porch
Either can be where the meaning of existence resides
Meaning is something only I can hold
My meaning is of my making
It is suited to me and fits only as well as I can make it
It’s an effort I find worth pursuing
In the end it’s love
It is the only meaning I can summon
The only purpose I can surmise
It fills the craters, it gives them meaning
Love is the only currency that has intrinsic value
It is the only true meaning
It is my sole accomplishment
It is my greatest failing
I sometimes hold it to close
I forget to give it away
I seem to think I can care for it and make it grow without ever letting it go
I am wrong. It’s only the giving of love that ever makes it grow
No one can tell me that love is finite
Love is endlessly regenerating
It is life that I must remember is finite and will only end in death
So I must measure my life by how much love I leave in its wake