Is there anything more consuming of our time, painful in our search of, or malevolently stolen from us by those who would prey upon us than the complete an utter singularity of being that is our very reason to be.
Who are we.
It is a melancholy cloud for some… a bitter fugue state of suffocation for others, Yet for a precious few it is a an effervescent rambling of wanderlust to enjoy.
Then.. for many of the rest, it is an anchor of truth, affixing us to a spot we will never move from. Others it is a brand, be it freshly scoured into the flesh, or a old and familiar scar, but its mark will never fade.
But the precious few….. to whom the knowing of oneself is a boon and sorrow all at once, for they see then the torrent of all about them.. and will learn that no matter what, they cannot change even for a moment what those around them know.. or don’t know about who they are… for they will never be ready to see anything and will choose to see nothing, but what they need to see in the moment to be that they are ready to be.
Because of this.
Love will bring sorrow.
Devotion will deliver Misery.
Sacrifice invites heartbreak.
Forgiveness is rewarded with Spite.
It isn’t that a person, even one in pain, does not want to know who they are, its just they rather do anything in this world, than have someone see before they have a chance to see it and decide if they can stand what they have come to see, or worse who they have come to be.