The irony comes in the chase

It isn’t so debatable as a two-cent token.  No peace of mind forms inarticulate, or renders solely without aid. As if guiding your own masterpiece was as simple as recording a voice, building a sled, carving an oar. Every syllable of dissatisfaction is what hinders the microscopic endeavor of remanufacturing existence. The tiniest morsel of ambrosia, disguised as a poisonous plant and damned by society for its tomfoolery. The majestic and idealistic, the imagination, the water of actualization, is made out incorrectly by every attempt at explaining. 

How could one person define the lines by which we utter our truest selves?  There can be no map, no potion, no magic act by which one peaks themselves.  It is through a near unattainable self-knowledge. An utterly unique and individual road upon the world we all have seen, though it is a world where we all live alone. 

Who can give the words through which we empathize perfectly? No song rings true for everyone. The closest connection possible is with another unique person. It can’t compare to the understanding we have for ourselves. So no person can whisper the secret of life to me. My ears will never obtain for me the best of conceptualization. It is only within my mind, the ever growing, ever changing, singular moment of brightly illuminated truth in myself. 

The dozens of mentors I have, they give me a road map by which they have come to where they are now.  My best of friends walk along their own paths and discuss, through any means of communication possible, what steps they take, how it looks and feels and smells on their path, and what choices they have faced.  The comparison to those more experienced, or differently experienced than I, give me knowledge by which to make my own decisions.  Some have given me beautiful stories by which to aspire. Some lend me insights about aspects of life I should fear and avoid. 

The irony comes in the chase.  With all the information I hold, the energy spent in registering my own truths, spiteful, difficult, wallowing, laboring times of my life; attempting to breathe in the purest air possible, could realistically be the utmost incorrect action for what would bring me to salvation.  Which truth that is set in front of me is best to follow? Or is it even correct to follow a single truth? Is it correct to follow any amount of truths at all?  As I billow a smoky exhaust from my mind, releasing the toxins of a deteriorating body and psyche, I can only wonder if my inner and outer search for truth is fruitless.  There exists a very real concept; any attempt at comprehension is not only futile, but actually hinders me in the process of understanding.

All the knowledge I now possess, whether from others relating and aiding; from books sharing and delving; mountains redefining and questioning, or my mind expressing and combining; it all tells me that the path is what matters most.  And which direction that path leads may matter much less than the steps themselves.  The willingness to walk, to risk lions and bears and hypothermic conditions in storms, is the best of actions.  To see what I can see, and know all I can know, to question every piece of reality until I can choose which pieces fit best for me and with me. Building the artistic expression within logical comradery, delving into wonder while hinting at conceptualism, repairing the pages of a well worn book to read the grand calligraphy which explains my own meaning.  Replacing each step forced with a step allowed, and encouraging myself only to continue forward instead of frantically appealing to every aspect of life for the answers I desire, that seems the way.

My inexorable fate dissuades me from reflecting on coarse written word.  Like the business of charging batteries used to illuminate a jail cell. When I figure the bore of my milestones, the stretch of my rope, the radiating warmth set by my burning, my cherished moments flashing will tear fire through me with fear. The realization of time bound promises and age old questions. The release of unaccepted realities and ironically perishable vices will kindle a flame I cannot yet comprehend. Like the first day of Sweden. Like the first time training. Like the first book I read or the first love I felt.  The milestones of worth, that alter me so significantly that beforehand I could read and speak and feel as if I am so truly in the know, but I’ll never share in it until I take part.