The Fall of Rain in the Desert
I know this, that one can only truly peek at the good moments, though we convince ourselves that they were something we truly owned. That we fall into this strong form of psychosis that convinces us that lusting for such a thing were the same holding it.
Yet moments are manufactured, internalized, stories that we form of events that are happening, and that we attempt to freeze in time, only to have the fragility and truth of our construct made real when we cannot truly hold the sense of importance that affected us so.
The importance we place on this crystallization of what we see as good, is shred in the next heartbeat, and we grieve as if it was more, because we want it to be more. The pain, the suffering, that we cause from such rending, we truly knew would come; yet caught in our illusions, we are so surprised.
The good is good because we want it to be so, and perhaps the bad, the grief we feel at such loss. Through such throes we can rarely be at peace. Let us dream of good, but not delude ourselves with the idea that such things have been achieved. Let us instead enjoy the moment as a passing storm, to be received as a welcome guest, and sent off as the remembrance, last nights' rain in a desert, with a heart full of gratitude for the impact it made. Perhaps then we can still the raging of our hearts, the thundering pulse of our blood, to see each other and the world with quiet restraint and care.