In The World, But Not Of It

We don't believe after a while, you know, in people...things, passing fancies, fantasies...clouds, no more than clouds appearing, and then disappearing. We test then. We test, poke, prod, detest...and give up, even those we love as being nothing more than dust...imagined, pretending, having anchored our whole hope in life in their being...thus. Their being, never thus, coming on great shock...our ship then sails on winds, away from all we held as certainty, for nothing more...or something more or less. Our anchor plunged...into a great abyss, where we are set upon our journey, floating on our little leaf, vagaries of argument and faith no longer tethered to our truth...for even that seems lost, and all there is to win for now is water, and for shelter from the heat...some god...for nourishment. Provide, if even providence exist by any measure, and now we go on, having nothing to say, nor that to say it to, to see but not to hear this world, perhaps again...ever. But to see things anew, and hear things deep within, one never heard before; to feel a strange way, as if one had died somehow, without the knowing of it happening...so strange to be in the world, but not of it, not of it anymore...at all.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,

Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: anomarsjourney.wordpress.com