Pursuit

We waste infinite time on our vanity. The collection of trinkets, the perceptions of others, the pursuit of our fleeting pleasures, build everything we know. To question this is wrong. There is no other alternative, seemingly. From minute one we are bombarded by the images of this pursuit and the traps created to coincide with our desires. There are feasts everywhere, for everyone privileged enough. Worth is wealth and wealth is the only measure of worth. The soul does not exist and will never exist in such a world. We know ghost-like glimpses of this idea. In song, in book, in broken mornings, in religious fervors; the soul will whistle by. That we never keep it is the fault of grasp, the fault of our greed seeking to gain from something that does not understand consumption. The soul burrows deep and knows only the paths of empathy as it shines in the molten core of our world. Warmth is the center. Warmth is life and a gift. From fire, to sex, to love, to companionship, to walls of a house; we pursue warmth. Not as a measure of greatness but as a means to live. We seek warmth with relentless vigor at times, because we are degenerating, constantly moving towards death and fearing the results. Never realizing, as we hurtled on, that death is precisely what brings us life and illuminates the precious beauty of its frailty. What worth is the mountain that will not crumble? Or the tree that does not rot? We are ephemeral. Transient and small, meant only to pass on our seeds to the next phase. Soon we will be nothing, and in nothing will return to everything. Our names will be lost, our bodies decomposed and I will be destroyed and in doing so we will return to the heat of the earth’s core; cycling back to become the mountain, the soil, the tree, the bird, the man, and the woman. Always always always always always recycling into the warmth of the core.