Never quite fully arriving. Never finished departing. Just needling further, burrowing deeper, fading or appearing slowly. There’s never a point where something absolutely stops or begins. Everything is astray. I see this in seeking roots, feeling their way through dirt, sprouting finer hairs for this or that process. I see it in spectacular lightning bolts and their stepped ladders, tracing this path in the air, experimenting with another path simultaneously.
I see it even in death, as bodies yield to an urgent gravity and fall apart, only to appear in new sprinklings of renewed life. This bleeding into things, this lack of final resolutions, this soft rupturing of membranes, this leaking through, is our humble preoccupation on earth. Our true calling – one so profound that it is not our place to decide to heed that call or not, for we ourselves are that call, also departing-arriving-departing. Also seeking. Also astray. In a perpetual state of yearning.
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