

Given that words are, at best, mere approximations, and that any given meaning they might have is purely subjective, how can we ever begin to consider the meaning of life? Truth is, there isn’t one, but that’s another story.
If words were arms to better enfold, then perhaps... or if just once we knew the stoppedness and were sure of it. We weave daisy chains to embolden night, then claim we never knew. Freedom is release, total embrace, no give, no take, just a love entire. Clouds gather - we too.
In the material sense, the future comes and the past goes quite regardless of our engagement with either. What we make of this is an entirely different matter, although, of course, in any real sense neither exist.
The knower alone knows the known. The truth is never told beyond the teller. Lies, then, are common currency. Any spare change?
In the materialist maze, answers merely compound the question and great deception takes form. In the beginning…
NEWSLETTER