I Am Merely

There is a place I came from, which I do not remember. I have walked through the shrubbery and trees of a forest, and the wilderness and grainy sand of a desert. A leaf or two I picked up and kept in my pouch, in hope of building my own tree. On my way to the garden I watched a painter sit in solitude, marveling at the shades of blue and grey that have given his white canvas company. It was a sight that befuddled me, for I could not comprehend if he was in a state of joy or melancholy, for the creatures he painted had no expression. In a brief moment I felt the connection between us, who did not know what to feel, or rather, what we felt. The day was still ahead of me, and as I continued strolling, I met someone wearing on her wrist and feet, the same map I held. We exchanged glances, and she handed me a checked handkerchief because she saw that my shirt had been drenched with tears. I politely accepted it as she carried on her journey ahead, while I stopped to rest on a grassy bank. The memories of a year ago spoke to me, and I recalled the days of endless affliction. They are distant now, though they pretend to be alive. My shoulders hunched as my mind grew weary from fighting them. But a breeze that came to gently caress my face helped me recall they had already been defeated. A comfortable warmth from the sun accompanied this breeze and I raised my chin to welcome its embrace. This is where I remember you are called the lifter of my head; you have liberated me from the toil of those days. My heart is made glad, as you taught me a love that satisfies. I get up and see that I am still a distance from Eden. The walk isn't over, and I must keep going. Today, I am merely a pilgrim on a journey.

Let me sit in silence with you. Here I question life on earth. We speak, think and dream of it, always with an end in mind, as if it were the norm for life to have an end. Is an end what gives life meaning? Would it have meaning if death was never present? Would it be miserable if there were no end to it? If that were so, could it actually be death that makes it beautiful? Why is it that only in death can life be made complete? Why is death, the very thing that takes life away, a defining element of life? Could it be that something has real value only if it will eventually be taken away? If it were so, could it possibly be a blessing then that life does not last? What is life if the only place it heads towards is death? What are we if we were born only to die? Does life really lead to death, or do we first hear of death and then learn to have life? What is it about life that makes us desire, crave it? Is it the very ability to breathe, the warmth of the human flesh, or the weight of our being, that we are afraid of losing? Or is it the relationships we have intertwined ourselves within that we find it difficult to release our presence from? Why is it that despite the relationships that have crushed us, we continue pursuing life for the sake of them? Why can't we ever wipe ourselves off life? Why have so many lives come and gone, yet I am still left with no answer? I pick myself up, and continue with a slow stroll. I am still on my way, and the longer I walk, the more I find less in this place that makes me yearn. Life has begun to drain the life out of me. And the longing amplified. The longing for an other, another. It's taking longer than I expected, but a thousand years in your sight are like a day that has just gone by. Let me not become too familiar with this place, lest I fall in love with it. Hasten my pace and shield my sight from the fleeting beauty of this place, lest I forget where I am headed. Let me not tarry any longer, lest my heart starts to settle for less. I continue passing through, because I am a ship that has not reached its harbor. I know that if I keep walking on, I will eventually arrive home. And home is what defines this journey. I am merely someone who longs to see you.