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  • Writer's picturedavidauten


There is only the horizon, this moment continually cascading, this thought already transcending, this life still evolving, and nothing, nothing exactly as it was prior to this period. There is only the horizon, existence slipping, everything sliding, living in a liquid landscape laughing at the silly semblance of the solid, as if bricks and mortar and concrete could be used to construct something more than a mirage. The horizon is at once near and far, both away and underneath, forever receding, yet an event through which we are always moving even when all seems still. Through this passage we are pulled toward a great beyond none are destined to behold but only survey from the shores. How amazing that all now is new! The dregs of routine and repetition are no more than illusions that would ensnare. Look past them, to the horizon, beautiful and true, a mystery no one can fathom, nor needs to, a gift, simply to be experienced and accepted.

Today’s truth is tomorrow’s mythology, and history largely a scandal of long forgotten love and loss, gone through the loneliness of another horizon. Yet trace the course of your life back far enough, and you can see nothing has ever left you, the past horizon permeable, with every encounter you have ever had, every place you have ever been, all the lovely people, trials, and terrors taken together, leaving something ethereal and unmistakable within you, shaping you, and making you just who you are today. There is a faithfulness to history, peering over the horizon. Even the events you do not remember have a way of remembering you, their influence echoing, and affecting every word, thought, and deed in a seemingly seamless eternity, rippling through every moment of which we are each but a small part.


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