Lo and be told
We glorify the beginning of things. We mourn the ending.
The piece in between- Life- is but an unidentifiable chunk of space and time.
How do we ever know where this ends and that begins, anyway?
What distinguishes a friend from a lover?
"Through what is laughable say what is somber", Nietzsche offered.
How do you tell a joke from seriousness? A lie from the truth?
Truth as the lie of the beholder?
It is not the actions, but the essence.
Not the means, but the meaning.
- C'est les gestes, pas les mots.
It is a false frontier, that which separates the realms of love and friendship.
One we can never see or feel until we have already crashed into it,
broken the wall, head over heals, and stumbled through onto the other side.
Uncertain if life as we know it will still be there when we turn around.
Not knowing if we knew life at all.
What you risk reveals what you value, they say.
But where does that leave us?
Is it an excuse? an incentive? a Rothschild test?
I am becoming what I am writing.
Or writing what I am becoming.
I want to write my own story and live it too.
I want to say what is somber while laughing.
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