The postmoderns were right.
There are no great plans or grand narratives.
Nothing that suggests purpose or clarity.
We’re all just muddling through the mire.
Befuddled wanderings masked as intent.
Where are you going? Where am I?
Here, there, likely nowhere.
The great plans don’t seem to be working.
I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.
No one else does either.
Time to employ a hermeneutics of suspicion.
Let’s search for those hidden meanings.
The faraway things that live deep down and far away.
Lurking in the places meant to be unseen.
We might find what we’ve been looking for.
In those spaces between failure and disappointment.
Looking intently at what’s already been done.
To predict the path we might be on.
My story reads like a book abandoned by its author.
I drift endlessly across the pages.
Waiting for the author’s return.
How long am I required to wait?
Faith’s patience finally gives way.
I’m standing at the horizon.
But nothing is there.
With whom was I supposed to meet here?
The author failed to return.
There’s only one I must contend with.
A fusion of horizons with no one other than myself.
I think I see things more clearly now.
The world doesn’t need any more grand plans.
No more fruitless schemes and false promises.
If I’m to wander, so be it.
My life isn’t dependent on what’s been written about me.
But by what I write myself.

Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash

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