At the end of the journey, we might not find certainty. Is it fair? We only adjust because we must. We don’t speak to those spirits. They opted out. One must be sturdy, ulcers and all. We might adore aesthetics, praising beauty, seeing it in all quarters—the gift of the remedy, the solace of the aged, the soft and tender voice of the nun. Some might weather the storm, seeking comforts, giving life over to the souls of flesh. We say it matters, because we see the results. In watching the Grand Guitarist, we dream, for it seems soothing, it possesses therapy. To find existence in a stranger, such uncured rules, to need a push over the hump. One says, “It’s nearby.” The one is by faith, by decision, by insistence—rather than evidence: we’re not asking for certainty, just reasonable correlation. Where principles contradict each other, one is right to step back and look closely. But life is filled by wishes, dreams, love by flight, memories of both triumphs and mistakes. At the end of the voyage, we might arrive at it, we might find her—some mysterious grayness, some concrete abstract, some blatant paradox. It might feel like a mirror, looking at ourselves, indulging in reflection, and feeling familiar. The god-self, filled by sunlight—measured by intuition—vetted by heart emotion.
