I try to wring a sense of purpose out of the bricks and boards that constitute a life. Usually there is not a drop. The solidity of things resists the extraction of meaning. One is left thirsty.
This morning it rains. I have never seen anything more perfect than the pale teal clapboard of the neighbor’s house rippling in the reflection of a puddle. It quiets all of my doubts that anything needs to be more than it is. It shushes my suspicion that meaning lies hidden in symbols. Maybe meaning is as obvious as rain. It falls from nothing and soaks everything. Life absorbs it without effort. It becomes the medium within the trees and within you and me.
I try to preserve that watery sense of meaning and put it into words. I try to crystallize it into symbolic meaning. The kind I can hold in my head and manipulate and remember. When I try, though, I find it has already turned into a damp exhale, into an iridescent stream of piss arching through the air, into cold waves and white clouds.
What does one do with beautiful meaningless things? There are so many of them.
I think one should let go of beautiful meaningless things for the sole fact that there are so many of them. Cherish them for a moment, then on to the next. There's so much to experience after all.