Way Station

 

Think upon the way stations.

A place to wait. A mental locale defined by a singular limbo realized. And here we find ourselves.  

Such a phrase. Here we find ourselves. 

Were we lost?  What created such disfunction?  The answer lay in the riddle of perceived time. 

Is it time that separates self from self?  Of course, you think. But is it not interesting that it is this other riddle of 'self' that notices? 

Perhaps the twisted question rests in this play between self and time. 

We are creatures of cycles, diurnal experience. We intuitively discern breaks of identity from one day to the next, one hour to the next. Noted in the calendar and the clock, our experience of the now expires and is recorded, and then reflected upon. 

Yet, isn't it just one long day from birth to death? The insomniacs understand how the cycle can be broken, and seen as a stream between light and dark and then light again. Seamless. 

So when separation of experience fails, then the mind can see the continuance of self. The unbroken length and breadth of our time, alive. 

It is a questioning of the very personal paradigms we carry high on a flag pole, as we each all march forward, discovering how choice later describes destiny. 

We all follow ourselves. Through the needle of our eyes. 

Is there a point to this?

Ask the balloon pierced by the hand that made it, as the moment of a birthday party's surprise,

arrives.