There is a distinct sadness to knowing you can never return to that place, the one you see in your dreams, a place clouded in rings of bright dewy mist. You think you might have been happy here once long ago but that memory may have come from a dream too. There were people in this green place, their voices distant but familiar, their quiet chatter and ladylike giggles ringing through the morning air like birdsong. It is so far away, you think idly to yourself, so far a ways to go. You remember this place not, you may have never come here but still, you hold onto it. At some point you see how far you have trekked down the dark road leading into the cavernous mountains. You think of when you were on your hands and knees, that prolonged moment of suffering spreading through your veins like poison. You can taste the bile in your throat when you look back through your eyes to see the barren landscape, burnt to a crisp. There was where you felt the world’s loneliness come down on you like the might of Ares. There is where you remained alone for so long that you pleaded for the silence to end, for the voices to return again. You were neither forgotten nor forgiven, tasked with a relentless doom that haunted your every step. Still you gave sway and moved forward but you will never return to that place. You of all souls cannot be saved. Yours is bound to this realm, this sphere of modernity, this plane of humanity. There is no salvation for you. You then, therefore, have the sole choice to pick your suffering. Will it be in this life or the next?
We are the children of our parents, grown from the dry earth one season into the moistness of another. Our colors are bright in the darkness where we shine best under that dim glow, like rose gold and yellow diamonds. Put us under the scrutiny of daylight and you will see our skin shine like obsidian, like gold dust, like unpolished tourmaline. We are the perfectly imperfect creatures bought into the world to live alongside each other. What does contentment look in our line of vision? Success in measurable units, within defined scopes of accomplishment. Some of us are not as lucky as others to be thrust into such bona fide wisdom so we roam farther and deeper toward the edge. Artists we may be, nullified creative heads worth a penny or three. Oh but we dream in generous doses. We see entire galaxies dancing around us, astrological beings whispering into our willing ears, telling us what we seek is at the end, at the finish of that goal. The one filled with glorious purpose. And despite our renewed hopes our sense of direction remains the same. We wake up to our deafening realities, those poised situations and lofty burdens. Should we call this one form of wealth?