There is no one who will ever know the secrets of your heart. I suspect there are so many and so varied and so deep, some even unconscious, that full knowledge and self awareness escapes even the most advanced or enlightened among us. Having said that, I believe that some among those who are left after we are gone will be curious or interested to know more, to have as big a slice of knowledge and understanding as is possible, if only because we-others who have traveled this road can guide us on our way. The insatiability of these journey makers is not about us, the dead and gone, but about everything and themselves.
So it is that we take to writing or otherwise documenting who we are. And whatever we intend to communicate, that pales in comparison with who or what we are in total. Once externalized and all taken together, images and strong possibilities come to the insatiable from which s/he will take what s/he will.
Who knows if our best friend was killing herself with negative messages she sent to every one of her cells for years? Was it old age or meaninglessness that finally did auntie in? Was my partner ever really there when we were together? or was he somewhere else, hoping for a better life with or without me? Did that person in that moment delight or destroy me intentionally, because of me somehow? Or was it somehow else?
In this life we never know. At least not the in fullness. There is always the known hidden from view, and the unknown perhaps forever unattainable here.
Is it our duty to leave records? to make ourselves as transparent as possible, or necessary in the moment? Is it proper and safe to be invisible except for what people can observe? Can today be understood in light of the inevitable changes that will be tomorrow, and thus my thoughts and feelings and words will be different and then of no or some account at all? What do we owe our audiences and friends and loved ones to account for ourselves? Everything, nothing, what?
Such are the questions I ask each time I write and share the always unfinished text. And each time, I have no answers except to make an account in as accurate and honest a way as I can. I must let the cards fall as they will. It is then both intention and fate which propel me forward. I choose and act; I am chosen and acted upon.
There is a power or a force, or what you would call it, higher than ourselves. Limited in space and time can only posit the infinite because of our very condition. It can be no other way except nothingness, which some say is the same thing.
