Here, on this side of heaven, we take delight in the haptic feedback of our keyboards as we witness the persistence of words manifested from thought. The more we write the less foreign our own speculations become just as speaking aloud causes the truth to arise from within. What we see, represented by the tireless efforts of the same material which makes us, makes it evident to us that existence is purposeful and that the meaning is in the matter. Look up, child, and you will see.
We pursue perfection and yet can never attain. Everything made has decayed or will be as such. What we create has holes and bugs gnaw at the tears and we patch them only for another imperfection to rend the work. We awaken. We labor. We desire. We rest. Repeat. It's not just code executed by a machine, it's in all that we as humanity achieve. But even our greatest efforts have flaws. What we set the hammer to, will eventually rust, and another will come, improving upon its predecessor, only to be replaced by its heir. Time and time again. Just as we work within ourselves to be the best version of ourselves, and yet, upon the eve of death, we will still be a shadow. Those of our kin will follow after and sail across the seas, even keel perhaps, but some turned asunder. Then one must wonder, is there any hope for us? Maybe.
I carry my own, just as you. I've seen the hope. I've sat at the doorway of death, between the shade of trees near the whispering brook. I've heard a voice in the night speaking my name, calling me away. I've spent a lifetime observing my own flaws and the imperfections in all that I do. Obsessing, regressing, and progressing. Then if not here, then where? One day. I see it far off but the season is waning and the stars are drawing near. One day. I will take my last breath and only then will the proving be more than evidence or rationality. I will see it. I will understand it. The intellect that we all seek will no longer allude us and we will never again be burdened by imperfect design.
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