Duty

My life and breath are enslaved under the most mysterious debt. The gravity of this loan may be called duty.

And somehow the creditor is beyond cognition. Only in my essence do I feel the undercurrents of its demands.

The terms of this master can not be resolved by answering the question, "Why do I exist? What do I exist to do?"

Rather, the appropriate question is, "What absence would ripple in my departure?"

Our nonexistence gestures towards the positive truth.

My existence is not one for pleasure, growth, wholeness, or salvation. And I know this within my heart to be true, even in the most electric moments so far. It is revealing that as my mental and spiritual cohesion descends that my writing doubly ascends.

I must suffer profoundly with the most open soul, the most porous membrane, so that I may feel the full extraordinary range of its devastation with gratitude, reverence, and surrender. Ideally juxtaposed against deep, ecstatic joy.

With the widest smile, with the most open heart, and the most suffocating essence, I must find addition through subtraction.

I am nothing but a transcriber for my master, and that is all I will ever be and all I ever should be.

In other words, a witness.