Friday, September 26, 2008


There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after.
-Ecclesiastes 1:11

I want to believe that the things I do matter. I want to believe that something matters, but the wider my eyes open, the more deeply lost I feel.

A few days ago I asked Morgan a question I've asked a hundred people, a question I once asked myself on an almost daily basis. It was a companion to me once, but somehow we'd become separated.

I make no great claims of understanding when discourse turns to the mind, but I have become very thoroughly convinced of this: my consciousness - Luke - isn't the thing that makes most of the decisions about what comes out of my mouth, and last night, whatever it is calling the shots for my vocal stream called back a question I hadn't thought about in a long time.

If you knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the world, the universe, reality itself were destined for its end in four years, how would you spend those last heartbeats? What would life look like if you knew when the ending was drumming near?

I used to have an answer, then me and the Teacher got reacquainted and my direction burned away like the cool of the morning.

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