"Why is there something rather than nothing?"
Ives's trumpet hauntingly echoes such cosmic query, only to be answered by ... silence.
Knowing as the endpoint.
Not all profound inquiries lead to understanding. Few actually get there, the seeker becoming mired down in the process--enamored of it, even--succumbing to distraction, settling for peace of mind instead. It never occurs to some to consider setting out at all, on what might be a most perilous undertaking, the already-known being entirely sufficient.
Maybe the journey is the purpose; whether you eventually understand or not not the point.
Maybe there is no plan, no "end". Just constant change ‘mid patterned sameness. And circular trails that take you right back to where you started.
Live and love ... if you can.
To that journey, stay or go, it's all the same, no one's judging.
Doing, having, trumped by being
Always the same yearning ... to Know.
What if at the end of life, you'd not yet figured it out?
And suddenly realized it no longer
(There’s more to this that you’re not telling me
*Painting given to me by a friend for helping her move on the 1st of July. It was painted some 30 years ago on a village farm by a then neighbor, "Claire", a self-taught artist. A man pausing in the act of chopping wood, to look out at the sun, the land, the horizon of familiarity, and untapped possibility.