Content With Mystery

Content with mystery:

to not concern myself with philosophy, that things are or they're not a certainty, is past my point of understanding. I am content with mystery, poetry, and a fluid truth that's told within each moment. To hold my beliefs so lightly, unafraid to let them go. 

with this I find myself relaxed with simply being, no need to rush in defense of a treasured line of thought, no beliefs to argue even to myself. Truth seems to be revealed wordlessly, translated to a particular understanding. I have no wish to debate another's revelation, to bend their truth to mine. We will meet in the silence of our shared perception, seeing together, before the need of a single word arises. 

both content with mystery.

what I write isn't meant to be true, it conveys no reality other than a moment glimpsed with certain insight, perhaps only relevant to myself alone. It's shared through the urge of every word that's given - to be expressed in an artful manner, presented in a unique way through the person who received them. What I write is mystery, and even as they reach the page any truth found as words is already gone. 

what I write is a memory.

and why argue what's remembered, it's faulty ghost at best - I am not concerned with the philosophy of things, each experience is exact they way it is, and there will be a thousand ways for its description. I only offer one, and have no investment in a truth that's now past. What I write is of a moment, and my words always lag an instant just behind. 

it seems any truth remains unwritten. 

~

Peace, Eric