——The constant running debate I have with myself is always coming down to the making of simple acknowledgments, almost symbolically, no matter where I am, just to clear a path that is right in front of me.  Just walking, everything is provisional, if you acknowledge that life is never explained, cannot explain itself;  but then, the origin of my thinking pops up, still as a questions of debate.  I also take an interest in the missing fact, of where it started. One can’t help observe that one is in the very situation being observed. He sees his shadow. These separate thoughts in combination call in a debt to the creator of the very moment.  And the setting seems quite happily incidental, when you’re in this mood so constantly. Noticing that life is cutting you a deal, offering refuge from the overwhelming gap in your origins, that is one thing. Actually thinking about this, while tottering on the sidewalk, feeling covertly a part of a grand mystery, is another. Two lines of thought create excitement, keep man busy with a divided awareness.
——But it is out of balance! One thought is like a distant bell ringing, and I don’t think I want to see that church. Where I briefly swoon and plead for understanding.  I prefer the grinding out of a daily inspiration. These are different modes, and flights of stairs, which do not reconcile, or lead to the same chambers.  One is not the extension of the other, for to dwell in a given confusion is not to stake out a chance survival. All my words are leaning on the choice–to get the folly of inspiration, I must make a direct commitment.  And here is where the satire starts, and the others are condemned.
——Sure, one thinks, many try to avoid the blatancy of the mystery, and just build a cozy, tortured life within it. To do this, they must bury initial, holy curiosity. I am trying to imagine how this goes. The guy says, well the answer will be provided to others smarter than him, say in the future of the world when science finds out how life originated. This is party talk. Though, glimmering, you still have to wonder why it is you had any curiosity to begin with. It’s like an irreducible damnation, a blot on your soul that you took an interest at all.  I am writing this for my friends. The poor guy, who is in the shape of a man, a solid shadow of a a man walking by a brick wall, no less, has to deny himself capable, or culpable. He flounders.  The hidden, I mean obvious, fact is that to acknowledge that you would really like to know the truth, personally–this amounts to an inquiry directed at the source. There is no escaping this inner religion.
——The beautiful world already exists, the story is just complex enough, to imply a sequel is necessary, just to keep you walking. The recuperating mystery, and the experience of an oddly allied curiosity–these are two different things. I am adding them up to a future, in which neither escape. Life is untenable, and yet you are convicted of enthusiasm. It’s a royal synthesis. All over the map, and still determined. This thirst for explanation is personality–the larger situation surrounds without your asking. Oh, I know, this adds up to a guarantee of a further, crowning story. I say to myself, for the sake of this place there must be another place, where another conversation at the table is set, another story is in progress.  And the man keeps walking.

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