Could this be the morning that the clouds lifted?
The darkness hanging over me might have an ending point?
Outside of the bubble, there are still wolves.
They are more like spirits, demons, haunts of a realm beyond this one, but I am certain that they are real.
Wait long enough. If you wait long enough with a mind stretching out to that place where something outside of you shines in, then you might begin again. You might still be growing. If you stick around to look back at where you were, and you think you were simply standing still. Maybe you weren’t. The years that went by did not take you anywhere, but they did push you along a certain path so that when you looped fully back, you could assess the progress and the damages.
Your younger self was constantly abuzz with programs for progress. Every initiative launched was an epic event that would see you radically transformed. Except, you never were. You are indeed a rock face. You are not a sunbeam or a feather. It takes true epics and eons to watch you change into something else.
Overall, I can’t see a true path of progress when it comes to becoming a saint. All I can see are a few bad vices effaced to the point that they are only minimally present. I never developed into a modern, well-integrated, perfectly adjusted grown-up. I just slowly lost the most cherished myths of adolescence one by one, until the only thing I knew to set inside my list of expectations for what comes next is death.
On this particular day, I continue to indulge one of the remaining vices–writing out my endlessly uninspired thoughts. Twenty years ago, I did more or less the same thing–pop open a new word processor file, start writing what pops into my head, then stop when I grow bored with it.
Next month, I am moving on to go and work for a big company among people I once worked with long ago. I begin working there after a trip to NYC, and the first time I started working with these folks it was following a trip to NYC. Bookends, things that repeat themselves. The way that life cycles but never comes back around perfectly to the exact same place it was before. Maybe that’s why I spent so many years running around and around the same jogging trail–I could see the faces that remained the same year in and year out, and see the places on the trail that you might think never changed as places that were constantly rearranging themselves and forming new patterns of life and death.