The sky rumbles, the wet smell of calamity broods on the horizon. Domestic fires glow in fireplace; meals are scraped into trash—soothing waves of time lap at my naked feet, reclined in chair, unaware of the great journey, unprepared to place soft heel on coarse ground and drudge into the coiling madness, unnecessarily acquainted with discomfort and solitude.
Ah, the righteous path! It comes quickly: fury and merciless tragedy thrust me into a great comedy of unexpected sadness—lost and silent, woefully unprepared for the world on new terms. I learned to live on nothing, bitter flowers plucked and left under pillow, clay and dry-bone extracted from a lie. The nectar of life that wets my lips sours, a harsh vinegar churned with cold hands!
Who are you now–after being lost? The shrill voice of self-doubt wakes me from the great slumber. I place my ear to the ground and hear the vibrations of a life lost, years wasted—words traded for shiny rocks and bits of paper, meaningless! Meaningless! My soul is in the valley where I sit silently listening to the slow rotation of the earth, the everlasting song that only the enlightened hear. It beckons me.