To be loved
As a beloved;
To know belonging
Rather than ever
To be longing
Is it merely a question, or is it the only question?
We often break our souls to fit in. It is a mistake, as we surely know in our depths; in the deciding moment, yet still we are willing to try.
In this way, art is borne. Through the innumerable fractal matrices, in every medium, throughout the world and all of spacetime… Is this not the singular motive for all of creation — from the grandest to the most small?
To be loved;
To be seen and understood;
To derive a connection to the selfsame,
As an other
How did we become such cowards?
Why would we allow it to get so far from the authentic nature of unity, so as to question and distrust every iteration and delineation and variation so readily?
It is curious. It is exasperating. It is mad. Yet, it is what it is.
It is opportunity. To make room for new charts one must be willing to sail into the apparent void. Beyond ideas of death, pain and scarcity, the spectrum must obviously be both expansive and brutally simple; the whole is evident as the one, if only our senses can finally perceive it.
So, here we are, in the arena, the only place we can ever engage with life, with our purpose, and with our realities. I guess how bloodied and messy it gets is up to us.