Today has been one of those upon which I reminisce and cannot remember what occurred. What a terrible state in which to live! How does one meander through life without leave a trail of breadcrumbs, even if it is only for a single traveler? What difference have I made in the lives of others? As Emily Dickinson wrote:

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Up to his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

Whose heart have I saved today? Whose pain have I eased? If I can say no one, not even myself, than what am I? A lemming of society? And if this proves true, in what sort of society do I live?

These questions plague me. Where does evil orginate? If not in humanity, than where? Does the formation of institutions within society engender evil?

I want answers. I am standing in the fields of life vulnerable to responses. It reminds me of a poem a wrote a few months ago.

Arms flung open, chest protruding, head lifted.

I am inverted. I am raw.

What does it mean to be vulnerable?

It is the wind passing through me on the mountaintop.

It is freedom.

It is dancing around in the meadow,

the tall grass dancing alongside me,

shifting gracefully with the current of spirit that

flows between the vast sky and myself.

It is standing, drenched, in the bitter rain

and not contorting into myself,

but instead letting the rain carve my body on its way down

and reaching a catharsis because of it.

Vulnerability is sadistic,

but a requirement to the human condition.

What am I but a vessel?

What use am I to others if I am closed?

What use am I to myself?

So, I suppose to answer my own question, I am not of use to others right now, because I am of no use to myself. Why? I need something. I am missing something. What this lack is exactly, I will have to inform you when I find out.