I can't focus. I'm frustrated. I'm angry. The sun has set. The valley lights turn on sections at a time. They usher in the starry night. As my thoughts joust for supremacy, one seems to sit quietly setting itself apart. Not screaming for attention it appears to, if only in my mind, coalesce into a form. Radiating silent stillness, as an immovable sureness, pervading all things it allows even its blasphemers the power to blaspheme. Certainly anyone, including myself could easily ignore its reality given the overbearing absurdities that flood over the senses, our emotions, that transpire from living.
One could easily dismiss it as a powerless anomaly in the psyche, bound to occur at random with no real purpose or sanctity--this thought. True enough, I say, such things could happen in an infinite universe, but upon my mind, eternally at play with analogy, it seems that there is only one light in this valley that actually, in its ushering, compliments the heavens in their gradually appearing grandeur, while the rest merely mimic the stars--failing.
A white building, crisp in its outline, lit from the ground up allowing the steady lines of its architecture to be accentuated, allowing features to be observed at a distance, stands unique, elegant but plain. Other lights dotting the valley floor, shining orange, yellow, and blaring white give definition to no thing, merely begging for attention in a sea of endlessly like-minded vagabonds. No exalted observer can see anything other than a blinding point, dissimilar in no meaningful way from any other.
One wonders what is behind them or where they are coming from, or where they are going, or what purpose they serve, apparently hailing from no place--no place to call home, as no lines, no architecture can be scoped. Spiritual wanderers, you could say. To be fair I suppose one wonders what is behind the walls of that accentuated Temple. Is it not God?
A red waxing crescent hangs low in the sky on the opposite end on the night, tempting the horizon, that dark, mountainous skyline to give her a kiss. It doesn't move in its stubbornness. She, ever setting, ever leaving, leans in and touches his face, and then a few moments go by and she is gone, leaving nothing behind but the rough outline of a lonely mountain, and a deep, penetrating salty view of the heavens. And then my gaze turns upward as I leave it to grieve.
Pinpricks of light uniformly move across the arch of the earth. It's apparent should you watch long enough. These celestial points, unlike the blaring mimicking lights of the valley, have proven themselves. These lights aren't blinding and they have traversed vast regions of blackness void of anything beyond the immediate understanding of earthly minds for merely one purpose, or no purpose at all. They shine on us to be seen, to encourage a world to look up, to wonder, to think. Perhaps they do to encourage the lonely, the heartbroken, the endlessly weary, and the searchers, those rigid and lonely mountainous skylines. Or it is simply all for naught. They shine for no purpose. They, in their beauty are meaningless, thus allowing the heartbroken a justifiable avenue to coldly engage apathy with a certain kind of confidence, a confidence only gained should empathy have no power whatsoever.
To press the pursuit of knowledge with a vigor seen by those racing against the decaying strains of death, allowing, in a rational mind, no such hope which offers a grander way is to press an ultimately fruitless agenda, an agenda you couldn't even say was selfishly employed. It is all for naught. Beauty, Love. Faith, Hope. God, Sanctity. Righteousness, Sin. Happiness, Peace. The very passion one exudes while seeking out ever deeper laws of nature and of humanity are sadly imbued with a faint undertone in the relentlessly true reality that it means nothing no matter how beautiful a person is nor how inspiring her words, expounding upon the mysteries of the universe or of love, for, we will all die, and those mysteries will slink back into there cozy enclaves without a care in the world, nay, the infinities whether or not some naked ape discovered its fancies at an undistinguished point in a place indistinguishable from any other in the eternities. We will die lonely, cold, and remain there in death for no designated time at all, for time is a meaningless concept for a ceased consciousness. What is the color of the number 2? Surely it's pink, but you might argue, blue. This is apparently what we do.
A shooting star blazes and takes away my lament. I let it go into the void. I look back down and there it is, the white building silently praising heaven. The Temple. Can this be purposeless? Or can it be simply another wandering vagabond just as lost as any other. My thoughts joust for supremacy but the quiet ones shine and become apparent to the acute observers. Am I condemned for speaking, for writing in this matter. A form so foreign to the ground rules of the scientist, yet so familiar to the realities of which equally in honest reflection cannot be denied, that of the soul. Is there a science here? Yes!
Should I end on the meaningless. Or should I depart with meaningful elegy? To which end do I choose?Either side scoring my brain. The sweet melancholy of purposelessness or the tender mercies of beauty in its grandest glory!
I wrote a poem here. It won't be displayed. Suffice it to say, I have chosen beauty. But I look upon the melancholic as a wanderer reflects upon a long lost love, reaching out in the night at times with damp eyes.