“Spirit is the life that itself strikes into life: through its own torment it increases its own knowledge.” – Zarathustra
When we arrived, the days were long and slow, so much was still unknown. As night and day pass, we think we gain control. Our perspective continues to grow. We easily fall custom to new routine and find new comforts as our bodies grow lean. The land I see no longer feels so foreign. I watch overhead. New questions are posed but slowly we gain control without control. I cannot help but fear the depth will slowly grow shallow.
Knowing that I have another home, seeing it through my memories and dreams, it all distances me from what lies before blind eyes. I am as hard as a stone, I compete with my strength, and critiquing myself is a constant state. I desire to remove the weight, not the strength, and let the current flow, carrying me under, over, and out to sea. Every day I crave to climb mountains seen and forseen, off in the distance, they are waiting for me, but they remain out of reach. Their peaks are high and my legs are too soft. I desire the challenge with the weight of what I dream.
Words will only voice our struggles. Beyond words, there might be something but to speak of what it is, is a struggle. Stillness speaks but only through movement is it heard. Through reading and writing, flashes of wisdom, insight, only do they exist beyond the words. I am honest with myself, letting the peaceful warrior be heard. I read, finding a tone sown to new stirs. Lost in words, I forget, I am starving! Let it be heard!
“Wisdom… she is a woman and never loves anyone but a warrior.” – Zarathustra
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