Who is our master? Are we ourselves, masters of our fate? Or have we simply discovered ourselves here, at odds with a world we did not create.
Do we parlay with the existentialist? Lending our disparate words to journals of despair? Or do we play with the materialists? He who dies with the most toys wins.
Are we as innocent as we proclaim? Or are we up to something. Have we hidden something from ourselves just to make the game more fun?
There appear to be choices, but if we did not create ourselves, these choices only feel like choices. They cannot be real! And freedom, expounded with flaunting zeal, is hollow as the grave.
And what of all our individual purposes, if we are but a small part in a big universe? Are we not dependent on our brother, and he on us?
And yet, intuitively we know that there is some purpose, uniquely ours to do. There seems to be a Being assignment, an itch we need to scratch.
Some few among the many feel this itch more profoundly, more deeply, more searingly. We, the seekers, are willing to drive ourselves nuts, seeking high and low for a knowing lost.
We drive ourselves mad, even long after our friends have told us so, and left. Isn't all our seeking due to this intuitive itch, this craving, this drive to know?
We cannot justify it to your friends, much less ourselves, yet we continue on. Hasn't this intuitive knowing informed us all our lives?
We curse it, yet continue on. Our heads are in the tiger's mouth. Where is our free will now?
Have we come here trailing clouds of glory, and Karma too? And so we chose this journey, agreeing to forget the reason why. But the forgetting is a thorn. We know we have forgotten something.
This, our crown of thorns, the search for something we forgot. The clues are few, and the search is costly. We even loose ourselves in the process.
A sense of eternity is in here somewhere. Could we but put our fingers on it we could relax. And so we claw and scratch, and point. Sometimes we follow, and then we abandon.
Perhaps the soul has been here before? Perhaps many times. If we are eternal, it may not be otherwise. Somewhere the game is known. We have known it. We want to know it again.
We journey on, knowing that the unknowing knows, whether we can put our finger on it or not.
Do we parlay with the existentialist? Lending our disparate words to journals of despair? Or do we play with the materialists? He who dies with the most toys wins.
Are we as innocent as we proclaim? Or are we up to something. Have we hidden something from ourselves just to make the game more fun?
There appear to be choices, but if we did not create ourselves, these choices only feel like choices. They cannot be real! And freedom, expounded with flaunting zeal, is hollow as the grave.
And what of all our individual purposes, if we are but a small part in a big universe? Are we not dependent on our brother, and he on us?
And yet, intuitively we know that there is some purpose, uniquely ours to do. There seems to be a Being assignment, an itch we need to scratch.
Some few among the many feel this itch more profoundly, more deeply, more searingly. We, the seekers, are willing to drive ourselves nuts, seeking high and low for a knowing lost.
We drive ourselves mad, even long after our friends have told us so, and left. Isn't all our seeking due to this intuitive itch, this craving, this drive to know?
We cannot justify it to your friends, much less ourselves, yet we continue on. Hasn't this intuitive knowing informed us all our lives?
We curse it, yet continue on. Our heads are in the tiger's mouth. Where is our free will now?
Have we come here trailing clouds of glory, and Karma too? And so we chose this journey, agreeing to forget the reason why. But the forgetting is a thorn. We know we have forgotten something.
This, our crown of thorns, the search for something we forgot. The clues are few, and the search is costly. We even loose ourselves in the process.
A sense of eternity is in here somewhere. Could we but put our fingers on it we could relax. And so we claw and scratch, and point. Sometimes we follow, and then we abandon.
Perhaps the soul has been here before? Perhaps many times. If we are eternal, it may not be otherwise. Somewhere the game is known. We have known it. We want to know it again.
We journey on, knowing that the unknowing knows, whether we can put our finger on it or not.
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