Loneliness in realization

[EverFlowingSpring]

With me, it’s just a matter of the stuff of all reality getting ground up and churned into a whirlwind about me. Certain heavier elements stick around for a while, moving fast to the measure of their own configurations, while the breeze whirls them around in a funnel, and I am the center. But it’s not like that at all, of course that’s just the way I see it. I’m taking time now to write down a few things, I have a little time for that every day; it’s just not an advantage I choose always to take. I’m not really doing anything with my life right now, yet all the time I’m doing something. I’ve returned to the outdoors after some stiffeningly bitter winter days. Amongst nature I see nothing, and it excites me. The trees are real, and true enough they’ve grown wrinkles and cankers, the ground has become characteristic of being well traipsed or churned up by scrounging animals. It’s all well, and good, there I was among it. I wrestled with memories and outcomes of vague visions and inspirations adapted in my life, and I walked. I sometimes saw, and was in wonder at how vast it was, the earth as an entity which cradles us all, and sometimes I didn’t see, or I saw fogginess. I have become accustomed to the fog now, whether it resonates from within or outside of me. There is vision in the sight of seeing nothing. And what would I relate this vision to? Nothing, it is part of those things that are not truly part of my life, but which stem from the same nothingness from which I came and to which I shall return. But here I am between two ends of nothingness, and I am given a variety of somethings, including a body and identity, and I am not simply to accept nothingness, but be part of the creation of something.