Where does a beginning begin, if it is self-consolatory
to pick up a piece in the middle and be lost in the impression
that it is the beginning! If you can rally around the underscored
fact that truth must have had a beginning itself… Or could it have
zeroed in, becoming itself without a beginning, evolving out of
a chasm of its own evolution? An existence that cannot be held in skepticism?
And where does love begin, then? Did it stream out over a fence
of self and become a smudged boundary between two or more?
How does one propitiate with love, if one begins to acknowledge
that it was an existence before its discovery; that a soul longs for and finds?
That, there is no need for exploration – that it exists and beckons as predestiny,
only appearing as accidents or coincidents? And is love actually unephemeral?
Its truth being unshakeable if it is honest; its eternity sustaining in its infiniteness;
and its unconditionality resonating in its selflessness? Can there be dishonesty in love to
actually, sustain love’s honest survival (as I have often seen)?
I have seldom thought that truth and love may be two faces of the same coin?
Should I contemplate and meditate on that state to obtain a miracle key to destiny?
You know I dreamt that my aspiration became a consubstantion in you, and me!
How radically illuminative can that be? How glorifyingly optimistic?
And then I woke up and found my aloneness…In a poem of the previous day
I had sadly espoused that time is fleet and running out? Is love really an ephemerality
within circumstance; existing like explosive bolts in lifetimes? I shudder to think…
Or have I begun to be Don Quixote again, daydreaming again….?
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