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Sometimes I think the world might be ending. Sometimes I wonder if, in spite of such vast and innumerable resources—or, perhaps, because of them—we have lost our humanity: our understanding.
Our ability to not only comprehend, but to feel as others feel, and to be warmed by the burning pulse of each life as it passes before us. Millions upon billions of stories—infinite and precious and everlasting and fleeting.
Sometimes, I wonder if God experiences itself through us, and through us, experiences for the first time, inexorable monotony. Numbness.
And on occasion, though with an increasing propensity, I ache to return to the dirt from which I owe my creation.
And when I return to the dirt, let not it be black with poison, nor parched from deprivation; let it be dark and rich, and let my ailing body, my tired soul, sink into the softness of that which connects all. For it is buried within the dirt that I will finally breathe.