I want to write about the last week and a half of life from the perspective of this tiny cul de sac without falling into the lure of passive-aggression. It's hard to approach subjective experience with pure intent when you know you are being watched. But that is what I'd like to attempt.
Each time I wander into the mountains east of my home I take the weariness of years along.
The loud voices would have us believe there is only one way, but there are two; the fleshy eye of the needle that leads into this world, and the narrowing pinpoint of light that leads out.
Someone grabs us by the heal on entry, loops the red cord, and in between the two gates our ball of yarn unravels and re-spools in however many years we wander our path.
There is no justification in this world. We are not justified. We deserve nothing. Privilege is doled out by chance; misfortune by the same hand. And our red cords, how they tangle like causal relationships, as if one good tug might have the power to alter the course of the universe and the webbing that holds it together. Systems rise and fall, not out of correctness or wickedness, but on the strength of the underlying social contract. Agreement. We are complicit in our own pain, just as we are indebted for every pleasure. In the first year of his life, the Son of Man learned to stand on the rough places and the plain. In thirty years he wandered valley and hill. The red cords braided about his ankle, wove themselves into his bloodstream, plied themselves into his flesh. The particles that made up his material form converged and fell away, like water into wine, every seven years without losing their individual significance—they are all his.