The great adventures: if only for an instant, the smallest segment of a nanosecond; perhaps, even the greatest adventures, the most daring and thus, the most final.
Will I ever dare them? Can I, being who I am and when I am? Can I ever dare to experience them knowing they must, if they happen at all, be the very last things I do. With all regrets attendant on such a decision and the realization that if even one regret exists the experience will be meaningless as no part of it can be attained or experienced other than completely and unequivocally, and that, in any event, none of it will be remembered, at least by me?
Is it important that it be remembered by anyone? Will its value be increased in any way by how many recall it or will it be, should it be, totally independent of recognition by anyone, even me?
How many of those I love and admire most, even if, from time to time, they deprecate and fail to understand me, have already faced this trial? How many have navigated it successfully? How will I know who they were and who they are? Where they are? Can it be that not knowing who they were I can still miss them with every fiber of my soul.
Did, they, in the penultimate moment, realize that I loved and admired them, whether or not I knew who they were and whether or not we were able to perceive reality in the same fashion? In that final instant, did they know, will they know, can they know that I was among those who in darker times thought as they did?
How many of us, who started out at the dawning of a brave new world, in a city we did not yet recognize as holy, are awaiting this final, crystalizing instant, and just how will we do it? And will we make a difference too: as those who’ve gone before us have surely done.
Can it be I miss us all already, those who’ve gone, of course; but even those of us still here and even those of us who’ll join me long after I myself have gone?
It strikes me that I am amazingly privileged to have lived among those who make this contemplation, not only possible, but a probability; those for whom the absurd has a meaning others will never understand. For whom even the absurd is full of possibilities.
Am I, in a very sad way, already living that great adventure? Sad only in that I can’t make myself understood to those I value most and must still plod on in what today appears a hopeless quest?
Hopeless at least for now?
 © Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2011; all rights reserved