There is a part of me that yearns the yearning. Some infinitesimally small and infinitely significant agglomeration of cells that seeks nothing but to seek. Some mass, some tumour, some malignancy that exists as an antithesis to all I think I believe.
What do I believe?
I believe in a beginning. A birth, perhaps, but perhaps something else. Something greater. But more than beginnings, I believe in endings. All must end, even that which may not yet have begun. Though, all beings believe in beginnings and endings. What lies in between is what stratifies us.
In Between is intention. A birth is an intentionless beginning -- a newborn's cry is his protest to his genesis. Show me the way back, he shrieks. This is not what I wanted. Alas, he has begun, thrust unapologetically into a role he has not the right to chose. He is soft and malleable and this is essential, because his life will be full of unintentional beginnings, and he must learn to adapt. Where does he learn to intend? Who knows. It is unintentional.
To intend -- to want, to will, to yearn -- is to strive for an ending. It is to swim from the comforts of the beginnings, and the before the beginnings, and irreparably disfigure your state of being --even when this state is sufficient. It is the most unnatural thing we do, and yet, indisputably, it is in our nature.
These are the things I believe in -- begin, yearn, end. Again and again, vociferously, selfishly, until there is a final, enduring ending. A death, perhaps, but perhaps something else. Something greater.
And yet, to what end do I seek? I've forgotten, I think. This contradiction is cancerous, and eats away my sense of purpose. But to yearn is to be human, and so I will, even if all I have left to yearn is the yearning itself.