“Unimagined. Uncared for. Unknown.”
By: Kiersten P. Benson (B.2) March 12, 2015 10:08PM
The human race, as bold and remarkable as we’ve amounted to over time, seems to have a distorted sonar for detecting the things that matter most in life. Our minds are exponentially and inevitably harnessed for distortion. We see a picture and believe to be peeking into a slice of reality. We feel a rush of a heartbeat and think it’s Destiny stroking it’s scaley fingers all over our organs. It’s like we are constantly poking an icy stethoscope into our knees, insisting on finding our wild heartbeat there. Even though our blood is found there too, it doesn’t change the fact that what we are searching for, where our core really lies, in reality is far, far away. It’s somewhere quite different. To our amplified development, I’ll say only this: We come close, but never close enough. Eventually, or by chance, we find our fingers gently pushing on our wrists or embedding under our jawline or attached to our knobbly ankles, desperately claiming we’ve discovered the truth. To that I wish to say, “Eureka!” but we know now that would only be foolish. We try to muster up ways and things that could maybe matter in some small degree--like finishing a good book or scribbling down a final journal entry--but what we lack most is the willingness to be untied. Like a ribbon from our hair, we omit the chance of freedom the longer it remains a knot.
Perhaps our ribs truly are nothing more than cages.
But some part of me won’t let me believe that.
But worst of all we neglect the most exceptional treasure of all: Vulnerability.
It’s allowing ourselves to entangle our fingers in another’s or our eyes to wet with tears over something trivial that matters most that makes our life extraordinary. A fraying heart, in the end, will seem like a smatter of gold because it reminds us that we can feel and we can mend. Love in its rawest form is the last and only constituent for survival. In the end, love is all that matters.
The issue is we never think there will be an end and so, we neglect.
And we blame.
- - k.p.b
