Ignorance

None of us knows what we have. The human, all too human, the base, everything from sickness, wars, greed, wrath, disappointment, despair, pessimism -- every single darkness on the horizon of existence -- thrives on this ignorance. We have everything, for all life blazes with originality and wonder. We have paradise, but none of us realize it. We are tragedians. We deserve death from pity.

The excommunicated are those who realize what we have. The landscape of humanity is deathly cold; you have only God for a durative friend, and God might not even exist. You have silence, but the world distracts with echoes. You have the truth, but only a handful of souls to share it with. This truth is not a doctrine, not a dance between abstractions, but truth in the Heideggerian sense: truth as unconcealment of being, as the mystical revelation of what really is there. We find truth by experience, but the world sucks on words.

How can we communicate? Love is our only weapon, and warmth our only invitation. Happiness trails in our footsteps, and blessed are those who take the time to notice. For our clothes are bedraggled, but our hearts are overflowing.