Content With Mystery

Content with mystery:

to not concern myself with philosophy, that things are or they’re not a certainty, is past my point of understanding. I am content with mystery, poetry, and a fluid truth that’s told within each moment. To hold my beliefs so lightly, briefly, unafraid to let them go.

with this I find myself relaxed with simply being, no need to rush in defense of treasured lines of thinking, no beliefs to argue even to myself. Truth seems to be revealed wordlessly, translated to a particular understanding. I have no wish to debate another’s revelation, to bend their truth to mine. We will meet in the silence of our shared perception, seeing together, before the need for words arrive.

both content with mystery.

what I write isn’t meant to be true, it conveys no reality other than a moment glimpsed with certain insight, perhaps only relevant to myself alone. It’s shared through the urge of every word that’s given — to be expressed in an artful manner, presented in a unique way through the person who received them. What I write is mystery, and even as they reach the page any truth found as words is already gone.

what I write is a memory.

and why argue what’s remembered, it’s faulty ghost at best — I am not concerned with the philosophy of things, each experience is exact they way it is, and there will be a thousand ways for its description. I only offer one, and have no investment in a truth that’s now past. What I write is of a moment, and my words always lag an instant just behind.

it seems any truth remains unwritten.

~
Peace,
Eric