Midnight Ruminations on the Meaning of Life

An entire month now this blog has lain fallow. Time has passed without a new entry because I find these days that my words are just too insignificant for communication. And thus I have not spoken, have not typed, have not divulged my thoughts to the world around me. This, of course, does not mean that the blog is useless or that my thoughts have not been worth sharing.

I simply cannot find the means to meaning

Deep stirrings and poetic notions have consumed my waking thoughts; glory has invaded my dreams. Yet to reduce such visions of splendor into the mundane code of words seems crass, mechanistic, devoid of soul. And I would not wish to foist such withering weariness upon my readers—however few their numbers may be.

Sometimes I must share what is on my heart. Sometimes I must release the raging maelstrom of impassioned inspiration and chaotic shards of resolve and regret. Sometimes I must purge the feverish miasma of impulse and thought and intoxicating emotion.

Now is such a time.

I was once convinced I was a genius. Now I realize I'm a poor wandering waif aimlessly drifting from place to place in the intellectual wastelands of my tortured mind. But we wayfaring strangers—tortured writer and eager readers—met and our meeting was, I hope, in much mirth.

I have this deep thought, long buried, but slowly rising to the surface. And it's starting to feel like love. It's a slow-motion lightening bolt of urgency and I'm feeling the static—as my hair lifts on end and my heart palpitates, I'm certain that a lightening strike is imminent.

Love. It can hurt like hell yet redeem like heaven.

Show me a leper with failing body but a whole heart—ugly outside but gorgeous within—and I'll show you what love is. It can't help but be beautiful. It restores. Heals. Sets all things right. The most disease-ridden brute of a man, covered in open sores, is still the paragon of beauty if he only has love.

My love comes out through words . . . but what good are words if not backed up by deeds? I must marry impulse and actions; thought must incarnate. And I'm stuck in the words and thoughts and ideas stage. Fear and sorrow bind me where I am. And I am only sorrowful or scared if I first have love. I cannot mourn or experience fear if there is not something precious, something cherished, driving those feelings and actions. Thus I have love, but in only a diluted form. It is a half-love, and for that I must repent.

But that is another story, best saved for another day. Today I have the following story to share with my fellow wanderers. Come. Journey with me awhile.

I stand in an underground train station. Above me bright white lights fill the room with a hazy glare. My eyes slowly readjust to the strange brightness. It’s somehow gloomy, despite its dazzling brilliance. As my focus refines I begin to notice people walking aimlessly about me, completely oblivious to my presence in the middle of the large room.

To my right a young woman shrouded in dismal gray shuffles along, back bent and brow knitted, deep in thought. She guides a small child by the hand, taking great pains to thread him through the crowd without bumping into cagey old men or tripping over obstacles strewn across their path. When they approach to within a few paces from where I stand, I realize that he is blind. Pity, I think to myself. What a terrible waste—the poor woman doesn’t seem to realize the treasure she holds in her hands.

Saddened by the sight, I turn to my left in hopes that I will find a cheerier, nobler sort of humanity. A middle-aged man clad in rags and covered in dirt and grime huddles against the far wall. He clutches a battered tin cup in his hands, calling out for alms in his cracked, feeble voice. The clink of metal—precious falling against base—brings a greedy smile to his face. Gold, I think to myself. What a terrible waste—the beggar doesn’t seem to realize the treasure he holds in his hands.

A sterile voice crackles over the intercom, announcing that train number 42 is boarding. My train. I stride toward the doors, which open with a whoosh. I chuckle and keep walking, amused by the sound. Ahead of me an ancient woman wrapped in a faded lavender blazer and a billowing skirt of deep fuchsia skips lively along the yellow caution line. She waves a fistful of tickets in her hand, laughing and offering free rides to any and all wanderers. My hand moves to take a ticket before I can resist, a thrill running through me as she introduces herself as ‘Grace.’ I am astonished that no one else listens to the amazing gift. Grace, I think to myself. What a terrible waste—no one seems to realize the treasure she holds in her hands.

Grace and peace,
Andrew <><