Comfort

I SING what was lost and dread what was won,
I walk in a battle fought over again,
My king a lost king, and lost soldiers my men;
Feet to the Rising and Setting may run,
They always beat on the same small stone.


William Butler Yeats
What Was Lost


A question was asked of me, if Loneliness was company I kept constantly. I replied nay. For I was not Lonesome, nor do I desire company (should they belong to fools). What I was was merely Lost. Home I used to be but now cannot find the path that wound its way to that familiar hearth. I hear a voice frame my name and I turn my head to catch what welcome friend but find myself staring at a stranger's face. The Familiar is what we search for, to dull the edges of sharp Truth, to form semblance from compounding Reality. A piece of a puzzle to form what cannot be recognized in close scrutiny but forms an agreeable image should we allow our selves take that Known step back. In the midst of what is not Known, we strain to catch each deliberate facet, hoping to strain recognition-- For the Unfamiliar is a stark image, each detail sprung to life.