These keys, this quest- it draws me here, yet again. Be it madness or benevolence, this inescapable ideological interrogation inspires further inquiry into the soul I call home. Will we get any closer? Perhaps. Further away? I hope not, though in ways that must be a bit unavoidable, at least in the temporary.

But you’ve returned, here, again. To this space that breaks the molds of time and forms this on-going battle against the inevitable entropy that all things organic and otherwise have been marching towards since the universe and eternity, allegedly, first exploded with all the light that allows the darkness to be, and that dark that permits all this light to be seen. Glad to see you again, though, I suppose vision isn’t the sense that we quite play with here. Not directly, at least.

So, I’ll sip this caffeine and begin to contemplate, as though I had ever ceased since awareness of my being became known to me. With the prerogative of this purgatory called life ever shifting amidst and about me, I think. And the fool of the past had abundant ignorance as to what the fool of the future would face- but it is the present jester that seems to do all the work. Or fails to, in which case, the being throughout time will pay for that.

There are those that call this life business a gift. And others that claim it as a curse. And while both of those fronts are perspectives I have held in varying degrees at various times, I don’t believe either to be correct in any way resembling some sort of absolute. And while free will is a debate that has been going on for millennia before we met again here, and will carry on for many millennia afterward, I’d reckon, I would argue there is an aspect of existence that can sometimes be up to our choosing. At least at times, for many, if not most of us. And that has to do with the very idea of perception. Barring total madness, which while I find admirable in the characters of many a tale- I believe that much of what we believe and perceive is a bit up to our choosing. Not entirely, and in moments, not exactly of our choosing, but ultimately what we select as far as the makings of our personal message to the universe is at least in part influenced by our willpower. Or lack thereof.

Might be the election of ignorance, the refusal to believe that which disappoints or conspires, seemingly, against the stances each sentience wishes to hold. And this, of course, is not always in the negative. There are those among us that choose a denial of benevolence. And those that choose to believe their own bullshit, despite whatever inputs argue such points as contrarian. And in the inverse, those that select cynicism in the face of any grandeur, for whatever reasons ingrained or otherwise influenced. But through both temperance and effort, it stands to reason that at least part of our experiences is a balance between acceptance and denial, merging and meandering as we make our way through the small space of eternity we occupy.

There is a letter that arrived a few days ago. From England, from a dear friend. Technically, a card, I suppose, but a letter in intent, and an extra piece of paper to finish out the ideas that the card had not the space to hold. And though the contents written by hand are for myself and my friend, as we share our thoughts on our grief, sorrow and the quest for happiness, somehow, in this life of ours riddled with tragedies, great and minute- there is something I’ll quote from the front. Not something I am oft to do, as Hallmark sayings don’t regularly stray too far from fortune cookie philosophy, writ large, for me. But this one plays into the ideas we’re attempting here. From the pen of one Morgan Harper Nichols, who I had no idea existed before an internet search a few moments ago, and of whom I know nothing other of her work- but anyway, the lines are as follows.

‘Choosing to have joy is not naively thinking everything will be easy. It is courageously believing that there is still hope, even when things get hard.’

Now, if I’m being honest, which you already know I am always at least aiming to be, all that pales in comparison to the thoughtful words my friend wrote out by hand, but since it is along the lines of what I think it is we’re talking about here, I figured I’d throw it in. Because our choices within all that life throws at us, I believe, reveals deeper natures into who we are as humans. Or at the very least, who we might be able to be. If nothing else, we are harbors of potential. But a balance between modesty and ego allows us a more wholesome perspective on this experience, so when one seems more easily achieved, it is likely to best fight towards the other. For existing on any end of an extreme is a doomed existence. Not that it isn’t okay to visit. When tragedy strikes, go ahead, grieve. And trust me, strike it will. Yet when something wonderful is or is on the verge of occurrence, allow yourself to laugh and dance and sing within that, as well. It won’t last, nothing does, but it is in the impermanence of all things where the most beauty can get found. How dull would an eternal summer be? To never grow is a travesty, even if that means you must someday grow old. Which, of course, is not to be confused with growing up.

But for any of this to work well, and never believing that it will work out perfectly, a certain amount of reflection must occur. And this, dear reader, can be nasty business. But you already knew that, didn’t you? I imagine you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know that. But the battle of self rages evermore, and for each step towards greater knowledge, the pathways to further questions will also arise. But as the squire Panza says, ‘you’ve got to know your strings before you puck them.’

So, with all that, what are we to do?

The truth is, we do whatever we want within whatever it is that we have available. Or whatever it is we need. And knowing full well that we might be wrong, at least temporarily, within those choices. But most choices are not the dead ends that they can so often be seen as. Sure, we can make selections that least us astray from some hoped for destiny beyond ever being able to return, but that is not the same as having nowhere left to go. To use that worn out paternal proverb passed down to me- there is always something you can do to improve your situation. For as Sancho says, ‘it’s up to brave hearts, sir, to be patient when things are going badly, as well as being happy when they’re going well’.

So, take chances, I say, or at least the best ones available to you next, whenever you can, because being beings not of immortality, they will run out, these chances of ours, eventually. And for some, sadly, sooner than others, but so often there are more chances than first, or even second glances might reveal.

And while believing the idea that anything is possible, that is not a permanent statement as far as we persons go. Possible will always work its way toward improbable, and ultimately, impossible, as far as singular lifespan can get at. For as long as it might seem at times, this life is a brief, often times fickle and infuriating beast.

But that does not mean it cannot be beautiful, or at least that beauty can be found within this life. But you do have to be open to it, particularly in the ways you might not expect. Understanding that we cannot always be that way. I, for one, have struggled with that greatly, both in my recent past and scattered throughout the whole of my existence, thus far. And it is not as though I can permanently abolish my own occasional, or sometimes habitual shortsightedness, as I’m sure you have some version of your own to relate.

Yet, within all this doubt and pain and impermanence, I believe, we must fight to find the light, the kind that can only be noticed amidst the dark, and admired and revered for its contrast. So, we’d best get on with it, because this clock has not stopped running, and most of us can never know when it runs out. And to quote one more time from the servant of the Knight of the Sorry Face, for comedy and wisdom are both best served in threes, I’ll pass this to you.

‘We’re all alive until we die.’

And with that, I bid you a temporary farewell with the promise of some soon-to-be hello again. For now, I must sit out in the cold by the fire, gaze and gawk at the celestial bodies once thought as gods, and finish the thousand page journey I’ve been working on, for as far as I can tell, this tale traveled four centuries just to reach me specifically, in this moment of my life. And whether that is true or not, matters little to my own brand of benevolent madness.