You come to me from a different continent
Looking for the wonders of the Golden State
It's not your first travel, but only one of so many others.
And yet you're weary. What a strange thing to find on your front.
An expression so typical of common mortals, but not on you.
You are never weary.
It's not the fatigue of the travels:
You were born a walker. You are the walker.
No. It's something entirely deeper.
It's the quest for Truth.
It's the quest for the Truth we know exists because we say so.
The quest for that person who with us will eternally burn in the fire of bliss
that only longing halves enjoy once they are reconnected.
Together, you and her will defy all the laws.
All the heavens and all the hells. Is this not the idea of Truth?
You come to me weary, asking why it insists on eluding us.
And we give ourselves to someone else. Someone who says that
there is no Truth. Better, that there is not knowing the Truth.
May you my friend, find Truth, and may she be what you say so, who she is.
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