Infinity

The story, any story, never has a beginning, nor can it have an end. Only the words slip in and out. Only these terms we use to describe some thing we hear, feel, see, do; ostensibly. That's what we use to describe the situation, for others to emulate, for them to see it in their minds, prehaps to feel it in their soul, but never for them to experience for themselves, for a story is not for everyone to live. Only the teller lives it, the others experience only the storyteller or some dry paper left by him, cold, a leaf on the ground. Either it has pretty colors, veins, twigs, holes, bites, or perhaps it is entirely green, not yet dead -- but in any case useless for anything except sense enjoyment -- a momentary diversion. Food for thought? Only for those who chew and digest, not for those who chug it down, swallowing whole, bent on it, out for the taste.

Stories are only really useful to those who are intent on creating their own history, unique, who can surrender and follow, who can surrender and lead.

And while I am writing this down, on these papers, from the ER, on the back, for want of a notebook to keep it in, and re-reading what has been started there, I see, I, the teller, am similarly bent, upon enjoying the tale before it's even told. That is my weakness. Self-regarding ego, Mother calls it. But let us just see if I can become so engrossed in the saga. Let us see if memory will finally serve and no longer simply divert my whole system down useless pathways, see if it will finally do its job, respond to its true calling and present something that we could very nearly describe as an accurate account. So much has been forgotten already, because the story moves on and on and to pick up the threads means necessarily to drop still more and others. The result of this piecework is a distorted tapestry, some threads leading here and there, criss-crossing and disordered, or rather ordered by another coherence, a separate reason to normal human logic.

But finally, waht is this story and why do I prather on? It is love. Love motivates me to begin it. Love I felt? No, it is the love at the core of my being, the love that touched me, the love that I am, where I finally come to rest in the Self. That love wants to be told finally. And so, without beginning or end we fall in here and there, and eventually drift out.

What happened recently was just another in a line of the fantastic, dramatic and unfathomables, wonderful for the self in the moment, obscene or ugly seen out of context, as any outsider might.

It's so hard to do it any justice at all without giving so much background -- and nothing helps here, because all that background is just so much the same retelling and rehashing. There is no beginning; there is no end. There is only the endless journey of the soul.