Epic
Posted on September 17, 2011
Epic
Everyone’s life is a story.
Some are told within a word or a sentence.
Some through many a paragraph.
But the only time
we seem to pay much mind
to their epic is through their epitaph.
Legion
22DEC10
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…it’s true, very true.
"Everyone’s life is a story.
Some are told within a word or a sentence.
Some through many a paragraph."
I always say there’s a book in everybody. It’s amazing the experiences seemingly "ordinary" folk have to recount. That’s one of many reasons for Writers Harbor:
listening to the telling of stories. And "enabling" the story tellers.
"But the only time
we seem to pay much mind
to their epic is through their epitaph."
A note of the melancholic.
Permit me to wander…
That is a linear view of Time, and also suggests that fundamentally "individual effort" and "individual lives" are the only Players on the Grand Cosmic Stage.
Surely, this is the instinctive, assumed, de facto majority view.
I tend to think (and live) differently. Maybe that’s why I stir up so much trouble sometimes.
Firstly, each day is a new Life. Wheee-eeee-eeeee…
Time Before and Time After are distant. Ephemeral. Distractions. We should ponder today with greater enthusiasm and focus, with creative effort and kindness, compassion and charity. Yesterday and Tomorrow we reflect upon with a certain philosophical detachment. Today, now is what is real. Imperative.
I maintain a degree of amused detachment from the "epic" and the "epitaph". It doesn’t matter as much as we think. People often say I need to get this or that published. I don’t worry about it. It’s the writing/thinking/living/dreaming that for me is a reward in itself. If my scribbles are totally forgotten one day, it doesn’t matter.
Secondly, Time. I see it as a series of curves. Time varies. Accelerates, slows. Morphs. Maybe it also reverses. Maybe it has multiple expressions. Dimensions. If you can find a spot at the apex of the curve, maybe you can see both "ends". Except, they are not. Ends.
Thirdly. Collective Awareness. We know nothing. I strongly suspect there are enormously riveting dimensions to our little lives we barely glimpse.
The individual effort, far from being futile until the epitaph, is part of a greater force than we know.
The writer who scribbles on Writers’ Harbor, is a part of something much bigger. A search, a pondering, a puzzle, a collective team effort.
‘Epic’ and ‘Epitaph’ don’t matter as much as we think. It’s the Ride, the Blast, the Flight, the Dream that matters.