Before meaning, the leanings of the soul.
Before meaning, the pain and joy of generations.
Before meaning, our journey enwombed, and all that is learned and encoded.
But we, we are accumulators of meaning.
Meaning is beholden to the experiencer.
And as we fumble about from experience to meaning, truth holds little sway.
It seemingly matters not how this meaning is cobbled together; whether by reason, imagining or machination.
Once made, meaning evolves, tumbles, into ‘truth’, the reality we shape unaware.
Meaning-made, forged into beliefs, teaches us how to perceive.
To locate what we are looking for (though, customarily, not what’s there).
Its desire, to steady us, prop us, provide comfort in its knowing.
And meaning-made, delights in accompanying us on our travels to and fro.
We assume and grow the reality we assemble, spiraling outward, collapsing inward.
Spiraling outward, the constructions we share with certain others (we call it culture).
Collapsing inward, we, too often not wanting to see, still less share, steel ourselves.
This last, notably, a menagerie for the curious, the becoming, fearless voyager.
We must insist on more than cast responses if it is clarity of the horizon we seek.
To be connectors of experience and meaning-made, a humble beginning.
Deconstructionists, budding new meaning-makers, rewriters of historical record, in wait.
Accumulators of meaning, assimilators of stories, inching towards, bit by bit, fledgling authors.
Authors, heretical revisionists!
New meaning found, edging closer to its mark.
Process repeated, and again, cascading through time incomprehensible.
And after meaning, the leanings of our souls.