The Eternal Truth

Myths are our own pronouncements of Destiny.
We are the myth-makers and our stories
Are our personal legends of the Fall,
the Resurrection,
and the Promised Land.
These are all contained within a lifetime.
Love and Fear stand side-by-side,
Angels, guarding the doors of Heaven. And Hell.

I live inside my history.
It becomes me as I become it.
But my myth is really my Opportunity
A port, with an old sailor
whistling a tune on the dock
And he’s whistling an ode to the ferryman.
Because you cannot cross the river without Him.
The ferryman is Death.
Death of a loved one.
Death of a child.
Death of a relationship.
Walking into the valley of the shadow of death
I descend into wholeness again
and start another cycle, a new age.

Where does my story begin and yours end?
Does it begin and end with what I am
able to know about you?
Sometimes you are completely transparent to me
At other times dense as a doorknob.
Our stories slide one on top of the other
Creating innumerable opportunities
For the Eternal Truth to dart
Between the letters,
Between the keystrokes,
Between the lashes,
Between the tweens,
Between being able to catch yourself
at the moment you begin to imitate yourself
And between being afraid that you won’t.

I’ve tasted death enough times
to know that this body too, will die.
Just as the stories of my life have been
willed and impelled and compelled
by the uncertain logic of who Me is,
this body too is someone else’s story
a figment of a beautiful dream
and this body too must die.

But the eternal truth remains that
I AM neither story nor storyteller.