poignant hope

The world is a mess, isn't it. Painful and beautiful, it's so fractally complex, so intertwined and tangled, so big, and so filtered through such limited awarenesses as we are. We are bundles of sensation puppeted by self-deceiving egos designed by the ancient deaths of our non-ancestors. We react to act, without intentionality or understanding of our own local effects, let alone global outcomes.

I have no assurance that we can steer this elephant past the many cliffs nearby. I don't think I have faith, even, in our collective self-determination. I do have some hope: titrated wishes filtered through realism, still caring for those fragile but immense opportunities. The cosmic jackpot seems so far away from our nearly-blind stumblings. The suffering of those around us, an ever-present smoke in our eyes and nostrils.

What if we collectively fail, once or a dozen times over? Then outside of it all, it will be what it will be. What if we succeed beyond our wildest dreams? Then outside of it all, it will be what it will be. This world contains billions of pains, wrongs, sadnesses, and tragedies. Outside of it all, it is what it is. This world contains billions of joys, beauties, loves, and delights. Outside of it all, it is what it is. "Everything is meaningless," one cries upon discovering the outside. "Yes and, we make our own meaning," I respond.

To see is to contain. To truly see, to know, is to become. Very well then, I am large, I contain multitudes. The experience of capacity is the most sublime of beauties. Consciousness is awareness of awareness. Paradox is truth. The truth sets us free: not to merely find and go outside, but to contain being-ness of outside and inside, perspective and experience, the dance and the dancer. I cannot name this true way. They that have ears to hear, let them hear.