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This topic contains 1 reply, has 2 voices, and was last updated by  Dave 7 months, 1 week ago.

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  • DaveH

    I thought I’d post something I wrote in 2009 that I happened across this weekend. Had I known about the Human Condition then I guess this would have been called STORK instead…

    DH – 17 July 2009

    As the albatross glides over the storm ridden seas in search of sustenance, so I float with an occasional flap, flap, flap, above the tumultuous seas of existence seeking direction in this directionless place. Even out here where all around is nothing but heaving waves, I cannot rest in serenity for, as the albatross is constantly on the watch for attack from the seagulls above, so I am ever troubled by the attempts of physical existence to net me with its impositions.

    How long must we fly our lonesome flight, how soon will our paths be revealed that we might once again push forward with clarity and direction. Is the seeker forever destined to follow the search. If he were to find the thing he seeks, what then – does he take up yet another quest, then another and another.

    If the journey is but a means to the end, is this the course of fear. Would it lead to the avoidance of trouble, the fleeing of danger, in the expectation that it could prevent us from reaching our destination?

    When all one can do is keep flying, pushing onwards, is there room for hope or excitement? When one flap is like the last, and all that is visible is the next… flap, flap, flap… what is the point of the flight. Indeed, barren as it is, this place offers some relief in that it is predictable. But oh, such a tedious predictability it is.

    When one of three-hundred and sixty directions can be chosen, what enthusiasm is there to choose any of them. Why bother changing direction when, although ultimately – and yet not definitely – may lead to a new destination, the foreseeable future merely consists of unfathomably more monotonous flapping.

    Where is my ship in this maelstrom? A place to perch for a while, to be treated kindly, to be resuscitated a little, and dream-of-dreams, to even find happiness. Indeed, I have crossed the paths of a small number of vessels, each of which looked inviting at first, but which slowly and surely fed me poison enough to hopefully subdue me and have me eating crumbs when my destiny is to be feasting.

    Indeed I have weathered many storms that have tossed me uncaringly, beaten and battered me ever closer to the depths of eternity’s ocean below, and each time… flap, flap, flap… I have forced my wings wide and with grim determination ascended to safer elevations. One after another the elements have tried to beat me, and each time have pushed me lower and lower towards my eventual doom.

    And so I fly onwards in tedious, yet persistent hope of chancing upon an island that satisfies my desires, that allows me the freedom of exploration, that helps me gain knowledge, that challenges my existence, and a place that even my droppings, the worst of me, help to improve. I know it’s out there, somewhere, that perfect place, my Eden, but in which direction I cannot say.


  • Dave

    Hi Dave H,

    I enjoyed reading your lament. Hopefully, we have found Eden with the WTM! My problem is how to survive in a world with people that don’t have WTM understandng and how to get them interested. It helps me be empathetic and walk a mile in their shoes. HC understanding also helps me love my family more and love or at least understand everyone.