Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

Purpose

It’s on the tip of the tongue, just beyond the edge of thought. That’s how it has felt for a long time in my life as a wonderer. There are times when conversations get down to the brass tacks of emotion: suddenly we’re talking about what we want out of life. Someone asks me how I feel or what I think and I say:

“I don’t know.”

They usually don’t believe me. Should I say that I’m sad? Should I say that I’m lost? It doesn’t change my answer. Occasionally a thought full of purpose will come along and convict the very world around me of sin and virtue and I’ll get caught in the wave. Here is what I’ve seen of purpose:

1. It hovers, poised to strike the contemplative conscious.

2. It is volatile to the same degree that its occupied mind is impatient.

Somewhere along the course of our thoughts a good many of us catch onto the habit of contemplation, but much more fail to learn patience. I am in both the former and latter categories, stuck in the throes of inconsistent thought like so many others. The other day I might have preached to you of love, enraptured by my theories of purpose. I may have called myself a Humanist and convinced you that there is gold in the hearts and minds of children and women and men, gold that we have made in the struggle for a serene sentience. I’d tell you this gold is a deep understanding, a loving kindness innate to all of us, and that it’s directed at ourselves and the world. But alas my mind is restless and I am on the ebb instead of the flow; purpose in my thoughts today is about as reliable as a radioactive isotope. I could perish as a miserable wreck, aching and weeping but for a reason. Also like so many others.

I’m going to write here a statement from me to you. I want you to know that it is the most sincere communication I have ever made in written words.

I love you. I hope you figure it all out and I forgive you if you never do.

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