Life is a little like coming awake on an island beach, naked and screaming and vulnerable and weak. The natives here do care for us, and get us up off the sand to shelter and shade from the sun and night and the grinding machine outside. They teach us their tongue, and give us some ways, and show us how to be and behave and what to expect. And the natives explain why we are here while expecting belief. And so we grow seemingly strong and fluent and capable; and establish our place with the people on the island in the shade—always suspect of the sunlight and the deep dark and the strange sounds far away.
From nowhere, Into this forum— Of trial and opportunity. Barely time to open our eyes. Rarely a moment to see. Just time enough— To accept and pretend, Our brief days away.
And soon the others go away—the old ones mostly—and cease seemingly to be. They leave when they close their eyes, and stop their breathe, and are no longer this thing called alive. But...I was taught they go on in some way, and that we will see them again in a place where there is no pain, and where no one ever leaves, and where someone very strong will care for us all. And so I carry on in these ways, accepting belief, tolerant of pain, living this way that we be.
But I wonder sometimes...what this really is...this place where I am, and this thing which I am, and this seeming existence day by day? I don't tell the others my thoughts, which upsets their belief which binds them each to what they call true. Such nice people, who saved me from the beach, who brought me in, and made me their own, and taught me that which few ever doubt and which carries them all of their days. And so, I will hold my tongue, and go through their ways, and speak as they do for each and all of my days.
All the while wondering to myself...
What there is—or isn't.
Across and over the sea?
My name is Kurt Bell. You can learn more about The Good Life in my book Going Alone. Be safe... But not too safe.
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