Mystery

There are grand rewards for those who pick the high hard roads, but those rewards are hidden by years. Every choice is made in the uncaring blind, no guarantees from the world around you.

There is an art to this life.
And a tolerance for mystery is part of that artfulness. Acceptance of not knowing. I think we (I) try to understand everything as best I can, get all the details, ask for all the truths.
But the real truth is that there are myriad things happening at once, in the hidden acres below the topsoil. Things that I don't and can't see. They are unavailable to my comprehension, and made of vapour and shards of moving sunlight and dust.  Real truth is not within sight, and out of the grasp of words. I find this untenable, often, and try to force things into shape, and sense. Get clarity.

But clarity and certainty could well be the trap. The things I am sure of will continue to turn cloak.
I would be fooling myself to think that I understand or have any control over what comes next, what is becoming. In seeking that I am probably paying attention to all the wrong details, the wrong signs. The important things are hidden, quietly cloaked in mystery, flitting away at the slightest touch of the thinkers' mind and the graspers' hand.

To remain still in the midst of this mystery is the task, not transmuting the stillness into stories, annoyance, frustration or fear. But I struggle to live life in the uncaring blind.