Best of luck
Ye shallow endeavorer
In your contrivance of a pond amidst jealous mother, an ocean
Wallowing in a single element
Sleepy swine devouring the pearl
May many smooth layers upon agitated grain —the meat for which you hunger, unknowing of its flavor, and so, sure to miss it in your nature which we do call pigheaded— elate and befuddle your pallet as you ask of each: “are you the center, the one?” And you’ll beg of it and demand it to be, and even misname it for resolution and tiredness and sanity sake.
Dive for father deeply, into the belly, and drown in search. Time and again, until the dream builds its bridge to here and hereafter. Stack its bricks, life and death, and die to knowing. One day you’ll see the low things high, and awe properly the high things hung on heaven’s mantle. Let them play their shining roles.
One day you’ll find god within, and with such truth your jaw will open, spirit inspire, and you will take your first breath of second, and last life.
Best of luck we bid, and beg of you the journey.