Laddership, Day 2

The Spectrum of Stories

From Hope to False Solidity

In the darkest pit of despair, sitting in a puddle of my last hope, I sometimes wonder, “What good is hope?” The question echoes off the walls of the dry well at the bottom of which I sit, alone and terrified. For every hope I have lost had a fear that brought it into being. And now that I’m down to my last hope, I hold many fewer fears.

So maybe hopelessness is the key to fearlessness, or perhaps the path that leads to the edge of the cliff.

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Who am I?”

“Who am I who?”

“Who am I who asked you?”

As far as I can tell, as we attempt to answer these questions we create the world, reality, existence, being, the self, and everything within, without, and in between.

That’s the story at least, the creation-and-destruction story that returned with me from an otherwise eternal journey to inner-hyperspace.

Depending on who we think we are, stories define us and divide us, or amuse us and unite us. These days the divisive stories may be more often told than those that unite us.

Are we bubbles, or foam, or the space within bubbles as we foam up? Are we in-foam-ation? Is this a foam-al occasion?

I don’t hold a hopeful narrative for the future. It’s not gonna be okay. It is okay, now•here, where we always are, whoever we may be, it is okay. We’ve had wings all along. The cliff is only a launchpad.

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