The Last Progress of Man

The coming of peace is the last progress of man, the last movement forward before man is at one with himself. Underneath this movement, peace is gurgling. I am man; a man and man himself, taking this great stride across an inch of nothing, smaller than a blade of grass, thinner than a leaf, but as important as the growing of a seed.

From the concrete, who knew that a flower would grow? ~ Drake

I woke up this morning with questions, questions about progress and where everything was going, questions about purpose and what my life serves to do. 

Where do we go from here? How do we carry on? I can't get beyond the questions. ~ Imogen Heap

The big picture is obscure, because my eyes do not see everything, and so there are corners or areas towards the frame or even areas towards the middle that are hidden from my view. When I try to focus on one strand, on one brushstroke, it eventually disappears into the shadow, like a trail to nowhere, yet it is somewhere that it goes. Some would say that the painting is incomplete, and being painted by me as I choose where to go. Some would say it's already a masterpiece, waiting to be unveiled over a lifetime. Oh, the suspense to partake in. I am blind then, right now, or at least visually impaired. What I mean is, I am young. And I don't see where the trail is taking me. I see alternatives, and placing a spotlight upon those unweaves them like a web ahead of me. When a choice is made, the alternatives fade back into obscurity and the history then appears vivid before me, shadows dancing from detail to detail, hiding as memory fades, repainting as the mind reinvents.

Answers. Answers come with the questions. They are ever tied together, held by a pact weaved beyond the limitations of time and form, beyond expression. Man, I, makes progress by continuing on a path, going somewhere. I don't know if man knows where he is going. It seems impossible not to be going somewhere. Man seems to drive his own path, yet some say it is pre-chalked. How do I know if where I am going is my imagining, or if I am actually going there. I suppose I need not think about it. Where I go, is where I go. But when I think of choice, I think of possibility. And I believe that whatever choice I make is right, because it is the made choice. Yet I still wonder where I am going, or if I am just walking on life's treadmill, and feeling like I'm going.

The words of wisdom, the advice is still the same. Just be. Just go. Don't think about it. Trust eludes me, perhaps because I don't know where to anchor it. I think I do. But then if I don't think, where is it? It seems I have to stop writing to know it.