Life

[Storm]

Come a time in life when walking away from people thats have hurt you is not a choice its a much I love you is is 8 letter so is bull sh**

 

[Brass]

Come a time in life when walking away from people thats have hurt you is not a choice its a much I love you is is 8 letter so is bull sh**

Boy that's for sure. There comes a time when one is drawn to finally ask, "Who am I? What am I? And why am I? And at that same time, one is also drawn to the realization that those questions don't matter because time is short, and soon, both the questions and their answers will be obsolete. And then one comes to terms with the fact that the obvious answer to the question of what is God, is, "It was never really any of my business," which is both a release and a captivating thought all rolled up into one, ultimately leaving one alone in the dark, longing for the hand of another, while understanding that that, too, shall pass, and is of little consequence. This is sadness, which also is of little consequence.

I recall summer and the old dirt road where the youth of the area walked, sometimes together, sometimes alone, listening to music on the transistor radio and wondering about each other under the bright sunshine, leaving invisible trails of thoughts and plans and desires that have long since faded to ghostly images, and there to remain, diminished until the last of us die.

Will we then find ourselves in another area--on another dirt road--where we'll find ourselves asking the questions: from where do we come and to where do we go, never realizing, or never accepting, that we came from where we were, and we come to where we are, and we go to where we will, and never having understood that to dwell anywhere either side of the moment is to hold something that can surely become lost and obsolete in due time again. This is sadness.

And there maybe comes a time when we become angry; angry at everything and everyone. A time when we come to the realization that our lives are spent jumping for this or jumping for that, and sometimes in the service of everyone but ourselves. And we come to the question of whether or not everything and everyone around us is truly part of us, or we a part of them, or all a part of each other in a symbiotic relationship not totally understood.

What is it to be out on the road, knowing that there will be no dishes to wash, no one to please, no house to clean, no clock to watch, no mice to kill, no grass to mow, no snow to shovel, etc., etc.? One might argue that such are the conditions of death. Another might argue that such are the conditions of life according to the self and no other? The driver of the car or truck you hitch a ride with will tell you that they live to get back home where their chair, their television, their dinner, their kids, their wife, their holidays, and all of the accompanying drama that goes with it is waiting. And who can blame them?

And that driver might ask you where you are going--what your goal is. What will he think when you tell him that you are headed to the ocean to bathe, and to then head for another spot along the shore to rest and bathe again? And he might ask, "Don't you have anyone?" And what will he think when you tell him that the issue is not whether or not you have anyone, but rather whether or not anyone has you?

At any time, we can look around ourselves and see what our choices--as well as the choices of others--have brought to us. Choice is a tricky concept. Sometimes, choices are not a matter of what the self wants, but is instead what the self wants for another, and what it wants to be for another. But in the end, there is no doubt that everything--every situation--is what it is, and as such, cannot be judged, only changed. I know this doesn't make sense. But the process of making sense is necessarily preceded by not making sense, and doing so out loud; by taking the shot regardless of accuracy. After all, who cares? It's just a game.

 

[Storm]

Boy that's for sure. There comes a time when one is drawn to finally ask, "Who am I? What am I? And why am I? And at that same time, one is also drawn to the realization that those questions don't matter because time is short, and soon, both the questions and their answers will be obsolete. And then one comes to terms with the fact that the obvious answer to the question of what is God, is, "It was never really any of my business," which is both a release and a captivating thought all rolled up into one, ultimately leaving one alone in the dark, longing for the hand of another, while understanding that that, too, shall pass, and is of little consequence. This is sadness, which also is of little consequence.

I recall summer and the old dirt road where the youth of the area walked, sometimes together, sometimes alone, listening to music on the transistor radio and wondering about each other under the bright sunshine, leaving invisible trails of thoughts and plans and desires that have long since faded to ghostly images, and there to remain, diminished until the last of us die.

Will we then find ourselves in another area--on another dirt road--where we'll find ourselves asking the questions: from where do we come and to where do we go, never realizing, or never accepting, that we came from where we were, and we come to where we are, and we go to where we will, and never having understood that to dwell anywhere either side of the moment is to hold something that can surely become lost and obsolete in due time again. This is sadness.

And there maybe comes a time when we become angry; angry at everything and everyone. A time when we come to the realization that our lives are spent jumping for this or jumping for that, and sometimes in the service of everyone but ourselves. And we come to the question of whether or not everything and everyone around us is truly part of us, or we a part of them, or all a part of each other in a symbiotic relationship not totally understood.

What is it to be out on the road, knowing that there will be no dishes to wash, no one to please, no house to clean, no clock to watch, no mice to kill, no grass to mow, no snow to shovel, etc., etc.? One might argue that such are the conditions of death. Another might argue that such are the conditions of life according to the self and no other? The driver of the car or truck you hitch a ride with will tell you that they live to get back home where their chair, their television, their dinner, their kids, their wife, their holidays, and all of the accompanying drama that goes with it is waiting. And who can blame them?

And that driver might ask you where you are going--what your goal is. What will he think when you tell him that you are headed to the ocean to bathe, and to then head for another spot along the shore to rest and bathe again? And he might ask, "Don't you have anyone?" And what will he think when you tell him that the issue is not whether or not you have anyone, but rather whether or not anyone has you?

At any time, we can look around ourselves and see what our choices--as well as the choices of others--have brought to us. Choice is a tricky concept. Sometimes, choices are not a matter of what the self wants, but is instead what the self wants for another, and what it wants to be for another. But in the end, there is no doubt that everything--every situation--is what it is, and as such, cannot be judged, only changed. I know this doesn't make sense. But the process of making sense is necessarily preceded by not making sense, and doing so out loud; by taking the shot regardless of accuracy. After all, who cares? It's just a game.

Thank you for this it makes alot of sense to me life bout taking risks and somtime s you got to go for it and leave the bad behind.