I suppose he was right when he told me that we need pain to get where we are going. But I can only suppose. I'm sure I won't know for sure until I get there or until I'm satisfied that I am so far from there that I can never reach there. But for now at least, my suppositions can get me through this night, and probably through the next, and before I know it I will have forgotten all about this night and probably about the next.

We are so fragile. Like a mist we are. I wonder what it feels like to die: to live one moment and not live the next. In that last live moment, what will I think of how I have conducted all the moments leading up to it? I believe in part, and I know in part, that I will look back on this night, and probably on the next, and feel either that I had wasted so much time thinking only of myself or that this night's pain lead me to all the moments connected by time and spirit to the final moment. Even still, it is of little consequence. What will be, will be.

I'll wake up in a fog. In a mist I'll find myself. A gentle wind softens my vision. I will be soaked in calm, steeped in slow breath, drenched in understanding. All this when what will be, has been.