We are all dieing. every one of us. every person, every blade of grass. Each second we spend on this earth is a second closer to death. A child is born, and immediately starts to die. It's not morbid, it's just the way it is. A fact of life; We are all dieing... We are all falling. Falling away from what was. Away from what we were back then, when life was so Innocent. And as we fall, as those childish whims that we are so fond of fade, we find out new things about our selves. They are beautiful and terrible things...But they are inside of us, so the are us. And so there we are; Beautiful and terrible
And in our Beauty there is a call. It's a call to become more beautiful, and to love this beautiful uncertainty that is our future. This is not so easy, because we are still terrible, and we are reminded of that often.
But the call doesn't stop. It comes to us in the night, calls...louder, and louder still. And it Will not stop until we listen. Till our souls are so raw, so exhausted from hearing their own names called again, that we
must listen. And when we do... in that silent moment when we finally give in to the call, when we find it to strong and ourselves to weak to resist any longer, then we will have peace. But our peace will not be a contented one. We shall not say, "Now I may go about my life normally and quietly, as my fathers before me." Because we will not be t peace with all the earth. Only with the part in it that we are somehow sure we must play. (though we don't know what it is, or for that matter, how we know this.) And we find that the call is still there, even in our peace.
And in this restless peace -this mystery that is before us- we see it all. The calling, the fall and even what came before it all. We see it whole and beautiful against the sky. But something utterly dark, and utterly realistic tells us that we will never see things this way again. For only when the future is fully unknown can it truly be called beautiful.
...And so time goes on...we don't often want it to. We find our selves wishing in those moment of pure joy that it would freeze as it is. And when we can see nothing but the Shadow in the corners, and feel nothing but cold wind at our backs, we wish -sometimes harder than before- that time would just end all together. But it goes on. Like a train with no breaks on a never-ending track. Imposable to stop. Imposable to get off. And although at time we convince ourselves otherwise, we all love our silly little trains, out of control headed towards only God knows what. Because he dose know, and we never can.
And that, in the end is what we must choose to take comfort in. It is one of the only thing we can choose. We did not choose to fall. We did not ask to be called. but this, we can and must seek. It will be our only comfort when our trains crash.
