In a world too brightly lit we loose the depth of night.
In a world without soil we loose our soul.
In a world absent deep deep harmony we become flat.
In this world of meandering consciousness many cry out for meaning.
Meaning is what they can least afford and mean instead comfort, assurance.
The bedtime story of divine purpose, afterlife, purity. Meaning is not found in illusion.
Meaning is there to be found for sure, but not in the daylight or the manic lit night.
Meaning is in the mystery, the dark passageways of midnight, clouds’ drift under the night sky.
It is in the dark and beautiful corners of those we love.
Meaning is never sweet. When it isn’t jaggedly dissonant, it is at best bittersweet.
In that is the mystery. Not many can embrace meaning uncloaked.
It is never defined or definable, it beckons but is never caught. Only fleetingly felt.
All beauty is our sense of the mystery, always felt with nostalgia.
Yearning for what is lost and what will be lost.
There is no meaning or beauty until we firmly grasp our mortality.
And there is only one honorable moment of death:
Not fear, not hope, but a tear for all the beauty forever lost.