My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Arrival
When others start thinking you are lost, it may mean you are beginning to arrive -- not at a location, or a place even in thought, but in nowhere: where destination is no longer an issue. It is not a passage through, or even passage. It is not presence, either of good or even your own essence; and it moves beyond the point of paradox since that too is without a meaning lost for attempts to express it.
Labels:
acceptance,
essence,
nothingness,
others,
perception
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment