It is because the human condition is determined to be subject to fluctuation and disarray, that we say there is the intangible spirit, the ethereal motion and notion within us all. But to account for every mode or mood of thought and action the mind and body must evolve, grow, finally to arrive at the home of two solutions, one solved and one solving, if you will, (beating and meeting, if you won’t). What they are, all may contend; this is done, but when you grow, you know of greater ends—twos and fours and thousands—and sweetest is two become one!
Therein we can speak truly of reality, duality and causality, not simply that there be a deterministic cause—none bear the right to the claim—but that there be an honored cause and clause, and phase and phrase, and truth-sentient sentience—one that even dumbest nature knows as life. Chances grow, why not romances? When each are earned by their own capacities, what are they filled with but faith! Certain are we none of us can do without rest or sustenance, but never are we how sure far we might go or where.
Then what crushes that spirit, what enrages and lulls, without right, but man himself.
It only stands to reason, as does faith, that we bind (not bound) our selves in some way, that none may press or oppress upon, nor would we fight at constant stay—so sensible is peace, prosperity for posterity, pure-power, and at ease and height.
That that one word could bear the world’s excuses, it would do nothing to avenge the dispirited and disavowed by good nature. To soar is to soar, to be free is to be free; there are only grades and shades in the mind.
Sure love is not without it, but met potential is net potential and any more is mercy.
From who then you must ask, unless you breathe no more than what would suffice of air and fair words; but a bind tames the spirit for play, flight and joyous revelation; for, that all are contained, some true contain, those beloved who run straight and through us, shaking, waking your spirit with soul.
That is to, finally, say with hope: the song, the sung symphony of the heart, mind and body—attributable to all aspects of reality and the self—it is this essential pattern, and sound, it must sound, leaving trace of willful life in its place, else we are hollow, unsubstantial, without.
Hopelessness, this is the root of all wrongs.
In both measurement and accountability, for to assume there exists what one cannot know is not as to know what one cannot know; how is anything replete but then depletes; complete, then obsolete—how well do we know things by their opposites—and how well do we know what when we know why? Because balance is a matter of guess and good work, but true-causally: it is heavens eternal (vow(ed)); bettering bodies have themselves their reason.
Confidence fills the void, but a good cadence leads the days. This is to make science ugly in the eyes of the irreconcilable, but, do we evolve as though revolved around away from it all, or devolved crashing down in decayed orbit, indecisive with our own fate? Or don’t we rise and fall, with each beat that beats? Say “oh”: we grow, glow, flow instead—the journey is the destination, the path, the only plan: radiance, an only right to all—that wonderful sort of thing.
What we hope to have in numbers, surely someone must’ve once spelled out, lettered.