How do I quell this longing—this age old ache, that’s followed me so long? My emptiness is all I’ve known, and in it, I am, in a way, full. The more arduous task would be to release my illusion of emptiness and envelop the true vacuum without collapsing under external pressure. Indeed, the vacuum must increase, if the benefit of fullness is to mean anything—if only to carve out within me more space for its blessing. Here is where self-discipline would serve me well, but I have neglected it: even now, as I write these words, I’m suffering for lack of it.
My mind wanders so easily—so readily meanders towards that which I must doggedly turn it away from. I find that the temptation to surrender to thoughts which seem like blessed rain after a lifetime of drought can only be blunted by recollecting that what appears to be a cool clear stream could prove a sandy mirage--or worse, that grasping at the thoughts might even thwart the fruition of their inspiration. So, despite dryness, and the insinuation of sweetness, I must press forward and disregard both, until it assumes more substance than shadow.
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