Threads of Destiny - A Meditation

As the threads of what I thought was my destiny unravels, the dust settles and what is left behind is but a Monster in me, named Regret.

I left a family I held dear to create a new one, was it out of desire? Yet I know, I left none, but only made the circle of loved ones, greater and larger, this do not lament, I hear.

And for what did I make a new one? Our fate, is it in our hands? Or those of others? The struggle for freedom was once about kings and tyrants. For me, the tyrant is a system of which I feel I'm left always at the short end of the stick.

Yet, I think often of how the trials and poverty of today, were borne of my idiocy, my pursuits and pointless ambitions, so deceptive yet do I see Your invisible hand guiding me through the rough seas of this life?

I sigh in the long, cold nights, the silver moonlight making it seem like the noon of an eclipsed sun - and I lament, yet I don't understand for what or for whom.

I see existence, all of it, what a pointless exercise- each human being a ball of desire, fury, activity and pain - each one born naked, departs naked, nothing we take, no achievement is carried forward, every generation is eventually forgotten, every symbol in legend eventually fades. No trial nor pleasure, we take, and the pain becomes a mist, it leaves no eternal mark and fades, forgotten at last.

And I ask, what is the point of the sum of humanity? Are we here to simply create more technology, more ease. Even this is a lie, since in our longer lives, loneliness still consumes, the one who is surrounded and the one who is not, alike they both feel disconnected and off-touch.

All the money you make, all the numbers in bank accounts- they amount to what? The lucky few, who through the strength of chance and a gaze like flint made fortunes, is it simply travel and luxury and forbidden pleasure? It's all meaningless and vanity.

What is left, I ask? For years, and still today, I prayed and pray, Your will be done, yet I have not a clue who's will I sought, whether it was my false heart, desiring what it did not truly want, or the promise of life a mirage cast in shadow and poisoned by the voices of the world, empty teachings, empty adventures.

I have always grabbed life by the horns, and now, the old bull I have become, bloated and unalive inside, with glazed eyes I search the horizon for the days of lost sunsets.

Where is Your hand in all this?