“Wisdom begins with a radical self-knowledge before it becomes wise enough to be helpful and useful to others.”
– Michael Meade, Fate And Destiny: The Two Agreements of the Soul
The overgrown branches last night swept my head and forearms mimicking the nearly imperceptible bite of the mosquitoes. I wrote a song for the river and for the past, unable to capture the feeling of being lost.
This I know: The hard work is here. Snowed under drugs and alcohol, and despair and self-immolation, that desperate season bled into the hot, merciless summer.
I am: in over my head, trashed out, beat up, burned down, absorbing the punches. The full gravity has borne an end to violence, and is somehow much heavier now than before.
I am: nowhere.
Constant voices smooth over our shells, giving us armor to deflect the core’s silence. Deft fingers plan adventures to keep the mind from listening to the soul. The latter is no saint. There is no divine right to be good, or to be right at all. Wisdom is waiting out the storm for a ray of sun. You cannot capture it, yet it illuminates your life.