Sometimes I feel I should write simply for the sake of making my mark. Nothing in particular to say, just some type of expression to drool forth from my being. In case I die today, there will be something from the end left for my funeral tomorrow. What did he do last? Well, he said something, it wasn't much of nothing. Somehow, though, he acknowledged his being. I wouldn't necessarily be proud of that, but I wouldn't be ashamed either. And sometimes, I think that's really the only reason I write. It's just an excuse to remind me I'm not dead, and to keep loving you the only way I can when I am.
There's a seed in all of us, just below our being- and the things we do, say, and think place us on this spectrum of living. There are these degrees of flourishing, I feel like, and these degrees of death. Sometimes the little things are all we need to keep an arm above the water, and make life matter just enough to not not. So I guess I write these words with no purpose other than to give my self purpose. It seems a little purposeless, yet it effects the way I breathe. I normally don't feel like my breathe is vain, but sometimes some things make my breath feel a little less vain, and then I can only wonder... and then I start to think about the speck I am and big things like the idea of God and the fact that I am breathing, I am this breathing being. And all my purposelessness feels somehow purposeful, in a way that my mystery prays I'll never really understand, and I'll therefore always keep an arm above water, make words with no purpose, breathe a little easier than I know is possible, and never not love you.
