As it were; I stood upon the cliffs before the sea under the vast canopy of space. I breathed out into the vastness before me to be answered by the wind that drives all the sails of every ship that bears every sailor to the solid ground from which all come.

The Breath Inhaled

Why is it that all that is, is? To what quality is everything bound? Can anything be that is not? Why is all that is contingent to being? Why must everything, in order to exist, be?

From what does everything come? What is the foundation of all? To what depends the quality of independence? What is that was not was?

What is the end of all? To what state will all things conclude? Is there a destination to all that is in motion? Is there ever conclusion?

From where did order come? To what standard is existence measured? How is the quality of relative defined?

What was the beginning point of matter? In what manner will it become uniform? How was energy set into motion? To what end is it working?

What made the transition from inanimate to animate possible? What caused life to appear from that which was lifeless?

What caused life to have sensory awareness? What is it that living beings were meant to feel? What is the internal to learn from the external?

To what conclusion does the consciousness so desperately seek to be aware of? At what final understanding does the mind work so hard to comprehend?

How is truth defined? What makes the actual understandably factual? What base makes a proposition justifiable?

How was it that desire arouse? What caused perceived need within the mind? What was lacking? What was not seen as full?

The Breath Exhaled

What did I come from? What defines me? What will my conclusion be?

What causes me to stare at the vastness before me with an overwhelming longing? What will bring final resolution to my discontented being? What will bring satisfaction as I aimlessly search the infinite gaps between pain and pleasure; never knowing what has sent me searching so desperately for meaning? In all my joys, what is that which I have so earnestly sought to sustain the fleeting glimpses of unknown, incomprehensible, unreachable perfection? In all my sorrows, what was it that the pits of my soul cried out for in utter desperation for restoration? When I saw the emptiness of everything, and turned to look away, what was I looking to see? When I realized the degree of my imperfection, the profound horror of my very own existence, what was the object by which I measured myself? When I realized my treachery, what did I realize to be sovereign; the thing I had betrayed?

The Wind

“. . . I AM THAT I AM . . .”