Upon nearing 70, I’m approaching the limit . . .

We are always pursuing something, and there is a vague sense
that something is pursuing us,
a chase within a chase . . .

When we find ourselves seemingly stopped for a moment
it is a revelation
that there is a point that never moves,
and the point is simply what is called the moment.

How can something always present be elusive?

Ahh, this is the paradox,
and if it’s not this,
then it’s that,
and if not that,
then it’s the other thing.

Break it down
who are we?
who is us?
who am I?

All are a point
with some kind of something rushing past
that we must catch but never can.
Our lives are about realizing this point
that the only reality is the point that we are
this moment and disappearing from appearance
this ever flowing sense of something
we—us—I cannot quite grasp.

I cannot capture the ever elusive,
but we—us—I know it is there somewhere and nowhere.

Nearing 70
my only limit is not—getting the point.


"We are always becoming and always being, and the two come together at death."
Jean Paul Sartre

The Moose will take you Home