I must have become insane and sane again at least 100 times since my last post. I must have covered 10,000 miles of countryside in my beat-up, but beast, of a Toyota Corolla. The last eight months can be summed up in three-thousand gallons of gas, six broken hearts, three flat tires, a few white lies, countless hours of doubting my purpose, hundreds of photos lost, a good hard lesson or two, a kiss here and a kiss there, sweet goodnights beneath the moon, mornings in dewy mountain meadows, and an innumerable surplus of love and new understanding for the way world is and the way I am in the world. The expansiveness of my experiences blows my mind, and I am grateful.
All of the sudden despite all these beautiful occasions in my thirty-second year, in the hot, thick of an impending Arkansas summer, I find myself grasping at a mirage of stability and happiness, of a grounded life in love and purpose, and I wonder candidly, "What am I doing here?"
The more one searches, the less one finds.
Perhaps the lesson for me now, and maybe for you, is that there is no lesson. There is only the process of becoming. There is never a definitive why, a definitive means to an end, and there is no where I need to be other than right here, right now, writing my thoughts which may ultimately be absorbed into a vast sea of information, the black hole of cyberspace.
I am okay with that.