And yet, we keep seeking the shortest path toward something we can hardly define, something so kinetic and nebulous that we can barely comprehend it. And yet, we can describe that journey in the direction of some waiting truth, some haloed happiness, some gold tipped pinnacle of self-actualization, as if that alone makes life worth living,
Why should the path be directed towards a goal?
Where would it lead, Marcus? Back to ourselves, over and over?
Perhaps we just need an orbit, a road around the source of our energy.
Around a personal sun that keeps us moving through light and dark for as long as life is?
Isn’t that the waiting truth?
on the other side
of the horizon, the other half
of the eagle’s wing