What interests me? A reflection by Albert Camus made me stop and think, for I had never reflected on what interests me. I plodded through life, flowing wherever it took me, with no particular premeditation, only willing to keep plodding in dignity, without ever losing respect for myself. Perhaps it is the plodding that keeps me engrossed, as it does all life, human and otherwise. Richard Rorty might have agreed with me: it is the muddle, each in our own unique way, that keeps us least miserable, most happy, and everything in between. The shades of gray. The variegated palette of nature between the darkness of misery and the light of #happiness. And always the hope that the light stays longer than the darkness, that we fiercely protect from the encroaching shadows. It is only #happiness in the end game, that matters for us all. As every rivulet and every river joins the one and only ocean to which we all belong, from which we all came, returning at once to our watery grave and our watery womb. My writing is likewise. Without a book plan. The book plan itself a flow I make up as I go. Yet always with rhyme and reason— gifts only the human mind can endow. Akin to the sing-song of a bird in flight, it flows, like my stream of consciousness, from consciousness back to consciousness. Time an illusion. Distance without meaning. The Rise and The Fall are meanings we attribute to make sense of life. Living is neither The Rise nor The Fall. Living is simply living. Always in Eden. Expulsion an illusion. Never expelled, only plodding, never plodding to return, for there is nowhere to return to. We are always here, always belonging, always becoming, always in the garden of Eden.
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