Being lost

How hard we work to stay distracted, desperately shielded from the smallest honest glimpse; surrounded by idols and walls and carefully contrived paths to nowhere; setting up the game to rules born of obscure fancy.

Until that rare person pierces the image, deflating the world to simplicity, without intention or motive or purpose, with only a kind word or warm look. Straddling the mirage’s complexity and vision’s loving nothingness is a hard place to live.

But it is the life we have; lost in thought’s misdirection, spinning faster and faster until blind to both worlds, lacking confidence to make the jump into either. It is a cage of purgatory-sized meaning.

Millenia of evolved senses work in unison with the single goal, survival, a futile battle measured in time’s deceptive cadence. Instinct, living uncomfortably close to the spirit’s will to believe.

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