A catch-all word to cover over our messiest reality
You’ve arrived, you’ve made it.
Like the mid-air stop between the up and down flight of a tennis ball
Arrival lasts for such a tiny instant
It doesn’t really exist at all.
Journey is our destination.
All we will ever really know is the going.
How strange to join the pre-established continua of life;
Of redeemed horror and twisted love
Of thwarted means and miraculous ends
Of whispered fears and secret hopes.
An alien, crash-landing in an unknown scape of here and now
By which we try to eek out a sense of before and to come.
With ever-increasingly sophisticated story-telling tools
Which cannot allow us to escape our immediacy,
Though they trick us into believing they can — they have!
We are each contained in a journey.
This is a constraint, indeed, but also a blessing
For understanding illuminates truth
The journey is neither your choice,
Nor is it chosen for you.
Rather, there is an interplay between fate and will
Which seems to be a unique construction for each person
Just knowing that we are going somewhere seems important somehow
But we will never know where until/unless we arrive.
To find ourselves in another continuation of the journey.