The Birth of Meaning

Morning brings fog from the trees, serenely draws away the night-blanket, and unveils nature's private retreat...A crisp January wind creaks through the grasses, once summer-gold and soft, now rigid and somber...Silence before the coming of light and then a celebration of its arrival...The day begins and I feel it sweep over my skin.

To tell the story now of what it all means to me would take longer than I can afford, but this I know: times like these, we are meant to share. To exist within and without ourselves in the majesty of the moment. Dedicated to love.

In times like these, we give to love. We give to art, and we read the pages of the world in a different order.

But who else believes that? Who do we go to when so many believe in nothing?

My fellow human, who soaks me with the wash of impermanence, how can you believe in both so much and so little? Years of ideology housed within seconds of experience. Your life destroys meaning. Your beliefs destroy belief.

And yet, hope exists. Visions of it, spread abreast, growing, sprouting into monuments.

People will see it and it will beckon to them. It gives an opalescent sheen to an otherwise blackened worldview. Beauty out of nothing, it will give them meaning.

I can only hope. That the truth of such things will outshine their reality, or that reality does not indicate truth.

For truth is the eviscerate, unempirical shore along a coast of insanity, and Love is its spyglass.