stopgap (short)

Life exists.

Not as a grand gesture to the universe, or an ineffable and necessary part of all.

Instead it beckons, for the realization of being itself.

Not to them, to us, to anyone.

But a call nonetheless to experience, not a direction, nor a place, nor a person

But a time.

A stopgap between the was and the will be.

A small buffer, sure, but a buffer that contains a totality —

of you, of me, of our place and our being.

It isn’t grand. It’s not meant to be – anything, really.

Instead it’s an allowance for our time, our infinitesimal yet nonzero grace —

to experience all the states of being that play.

It isn’t wholly pleasant either, or terrible.

It isn’t meant to be, well, anything really.

Anything more than a being.

An existence.