The Question

An apparently wise and eternal word is spoken, and it is listened to and embraced, and then there becomes the paradox, another version of a particular apparent truth, a thought must explode, knowing that it cannot stand alone, be definitive, be an ultimate answer, and then between the shallow and the deep, there is no difference, apart from a detail, that in the end is unable to justify itself, and what then, is belief based upon? Is it any more than an idea that has become lost in itself? Has deceived itself in its narrowness? And it is in the narrowness of insecure belief that a definite answer has to be found, for the ones of that nature, and the only real answer is the answer of love, with its pattern of forever changing, for its openness and diversity, for its being free to allow interpretation, for the questioning that it enters you with, looking for the answers in the changing of feeling, and every answer, is an answer, for every moment that has a question, and every question can look within itself and know that it needn't ask, it knows already, in its spirit and its soul, and in its love.