The experience is yours.

02.23.14

I tried to explain it last night.

'There's this thing, this experience, that it made me think of. I just wish I knew how to communicate it better.  I wish I could pass it on.'

Longish pause.

'Life just got...totally better, magical even, when I just accepted that I don't know the answers.  When I finally just said, fuck, I don't know.'

Another long reflective pause.  Is there more?  

No.

'The end.'

A final pause.  Sinking in.

He laughed.  And laughed and laughed.  So did I.

Surrender.

I am far from belligerent, probably nearly as far as it is possible for one to be.

Yet I am prepared to stand my ground, and I will relish the opportunity to lovingly invite those who delight in collecting things:

"Please:  take my experiences.  Take the thoughts, the feelings, the seeds I have gathered from all across my world and cultivated through my life.  Take my thoughts, my heart, my spirit.  I dare you."

I am not afraid.

01.31.14

"After all, the world belongs to them," he said, almost as an afterthought.

The boy looked up at him, a new and apparent earnestness beginning to overtake the sullen indifference that had threatened to become a permanent feature of his young, though rapidly aging, countenance. "To whom?"  he asked quietly, hopefully, desperately. 

The older man drew in his breath and stared at him. The fixity of his gaze might have been perceived as patronizing were it not for the unmistakable reservoir of compassion from which it arose.  And then, as he saw the change in the boy, something magical began to happen.   His own face began to change.  Light, the light of the secret he was passing on, a flame that had been in danger of dying out for want of a new cache in which to burn, began to radiate from him.  He glowed, and though any observer would have counted the outward manifestation of this light as miraculous, the true miracle was that which was reflected inward.  In an instant, he knew that the circle would be completed.  He would turn to dust, yes, but the embers of what he had been would remain.  What he had burned for, what had literally consumed him, would go on.

"The creators, of course," he answered thoughtfully, if obviously, and then continued.  He made an effort to control his excitement, for he knew it would not serve the passage of the secret.  But it was, without a doubt, the single most exceptional moment of the many years he'd thus far been upon this earth.  He had found a keeper of his light.  He drew in a labored but steadying breath before continuing.

"The creators.  Those individuals who, by accident or inevitability, have journeyed to the ends of their universes, literal or metaphysical, and upon arriving at these frontiers, have returned to where they started, armed with the certain conviction that there is nothing for one to do but commence creating the world of which he dreams.  The world, my friend, is theirs.  In each thought, each action, each metaphorical brush stroke, they choose.  Light or dark.  Hope or suffering.  Love or fear."