1.618

i am used to travelling alone. faring forward- not looking ahead nor behind- only this transient moment is made known on the faces of my fellow travellers (who i do not wish to know), in the understanding of a poem which leads to tears, in this music which is valuable not only for it's sound or aesthetic pleasure but for how and why it was written- the depths of a soul and fervor of a mind.

such is this poem, this plea, this life-
we are seeking, seeking
moving and not seeing,
knowing and understanding this brief and significant journey-
not birth nor death
but only this moment.
this shaft of light where the dust is now settling,
all that was in darkness seems foolish now.
for here is the music of day, of light, of being alive:
faring forward- not from nor towards-
but only dying to ourselves
again and again
for this, is love.