Making Sense of the Jest

Young men ramble with their feet, old man with their words. I've been doing both since the day I learned to move myself in both these ways. A writer's work is an extended suicide note, a piece of paper left behind to explain to those who survive his heart's cessation where he might possibly have rambled in the time in which he took up residence in his transient body. An explanation of how he viewed the swirling miriad of phantasms which present themselves as reality to our beleagered eyes. When we read these words we stare into the empty eyes of the one who wrote them, both become aware that they are looking into a void deeper than their own. When those two perspectives fix their gaze upon each other a connection, that for one exquisite moment illuminates all of existence, assures both rambling souls that even if everything is nothing, they can maintain hope in being alone together, drifting through infinite layers of illusion until they reach the ineffable beyond any of the rubbish they thought they had been able to define with their previous languages. Someday I won't have feet or a tongue, but maybe someone someday with both will understand my words and then use his to respond and perpetuate the lost message I passed on while it was my task, while I was stuck in this land of wind and sand.