Coda

by practicalspactical

This has been the tale of my sickness. Some joy, and much love, and some sadness, and disappointment, and stretching, and always myself, myself, and some of the others I have found along the way.

I am not ready to go just yet — I am tired, but hopefully, with some sleep, I will rise again, and cloth my limbs. My heart is broken, but ready to heal. I am in an old place — and a new place — I am General Lee, returned to Gettysburg.

It is uncomfortable, certainly. But — hmm — what strangeness, that victory, even this small victory, would taste so much like defeat? Pyrrhic, I believe it’s called. Another victory like that, he said, and was remembered forever, and we’re done for.

Well then — easy enough — no more victories like that. Other victories. The victories of the simple life. Of the client. Of service. Of bending down and standing up.

Try to be more. Try to be better, and kinder. We are all in this together. I reach out my hand in the distance — that’s part of me too — the greater path, and the lesser path. Alone. Together. Eye opens. Eye closes. Lost. Found. Time. Spins. Movement folded in on itself. Energy retained. What are we, what strange ghost animates these fingers, and the thought computer in my head?

Who cares. Every question leads to more questions. Is this Real? Yes. It is Real.