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We float on these gentle streams as small red leaves and await waterfalls without much vision. These waterfalls, these dark holes, these rings in the cosmic fabric are unpredictable and uncontrollable. And they come to us, and at us, with a random poetry that cannot be written and is only pretended to be read. Separation is the cause of most of life’s anxiety, because its separation and the hollow cold emptiness it creates that we can understand the least of all. Strength and weakness, twilight and starlight, death and life.

The projector changes scenes when it deems fit. Grim slabs of misery can transition to bright bombastic stabs of ecstasy only with time, and only with hope. But ultimately, we have none; none that we can truly know of anyway. Our energy is but random pulses, random connections that feel solid for as long as they last and just as vapid as they collapse brutally from below and above us.

Sometimes the question that we all can’t answer, and rarely want to ask, is thrown at us, messily, miserably, and without cause. And our only response must be to promise those who have presented the question, through no fault of their own, that we’ll try our best to answer it and make our selves more whole not because of the answer, but because we’ll have searched for it. Humans have been searching for it forever, and we’ll never find it in this prism. The answers just aren’t offered.

But in the damp night sky satellites will continue on their orbits, connections will be made, and sometimes missed, and hearts will break and never heal. My spine sinks sadly into the comfort of this night as the ashes of my brother fly majestically over some foreign land towards their home, to the place they belong, to the ocean we, and he, all sprung from. And when all our ashes settle, as a true quiet absorbs the space around our beings like a thick jelly, we can only hope that we’ll all get the answers we seek someday, in sometime, in some place. Because that is the only true hope any of us can have, and it’s the greatest mercy we can possibly expect.

It’s only in this time of loss that the direction of life can be so singular, as we search our minds for reasons and answers we cannot know. And as thick drops of cool rain fall regally from above, we can only keep breathing every breath and walking every step towards a destination we’ll never know. And for whatever reason, we’ll learn something along the way. If there is no final score, no touch of grace and no healing contact, then the sad story would have a pretty poor ending. And a blank page is no way to end a beautiful tale; even if its one that hurts us so badly along the way. So let us hope this is a story, and not just an illusion.