Our souls elsewhere

Gazing at the sky, tracing the faint imprints left at our birth, I can only sense not a God but a Logic, an Order, something that slips through the nets of our small languages and inward thoughts, beyond what we can fathom.

A fire dwells within us. It fuels our acts, our dreams, and our hunger, a thirst that never quiets. Our souls drift afar, tethered to what seems like cosmic plasma, simmering since the dawn of time. We know nothing of it. We are the improbable fruits of a chaos without law or creed—a chance that still spills colors, scents, and shapes.

Perhaps life on Earth was seeded by a comet that watered the oceans; perhaps an ancient spark, a dormant machine, flickered to life in the planet’s young magma, electrifying the very first cells.

Or perhaps there is only the slow, endless rhythm of a nameless cycle—without Creator, without Purpose. Yet, how could there be Nothing if we are here to ask the question?

Each day that leads us toward our end writes itself into existence, an unseen hand scripting torrents of fleeting truths. Perhaps these pages stack in a formless library, an awareness that exists solely to be aware.

And as we drift, we dream, clothing ourselves in fragile certainties that guide us—the blind—down a path woven with song and striving. Everything lives within those books: chaos and order, love and war, survival and decline, smiles and vengeance, fear and adventure.

Our images shift; the spark of creation never dims, and perhaps our deepest sorrow is to settle for our ignorance and superstitions, as we cast them into stories and sermons.

Our souls renew as our flesh wanes. Tomorrow, this compost may be metal, yet it will still be food for new blooms and other souls.

The day when all might cease lies far, far beyond. All we know for now is that time stretches out—so, too, does space, direction, and the endless map.

This adventure is one that never tires of beginning again.