Epiphanies are rare, which is to say that they are common in a world with chaos masking Truth and so much of living is the wading through distraction. . . Imagine how the universe may be rife with them.
You awake to learn that all your life you’ve sought some hoped for other and the hope was just the chance to find another
from like to love, love to connection, connection to commitment. . . to a sameness perceived as comfort.
. . . . and then you really do awake. It is not what you’ve sought, but what you thought you wanted. And how that thought has led you to a desire for acceptance. When you always were and never needed to enclose anyone to find it. . . . Epiphany
When you live in between the worlds, past and present, loved and lost, wild and . . . modern, Chicano and Latino (which is to say Hispanic), you awake to realize that your heart was not as wild as youth, but as wild as Texas scrub beneath a Comanche moon, dictated by your ability to adapt, mitigated by the fact of birth from two irreconcilable natures.
That where you came was written with horses’ hooves and arrows shot at breakneck speed. A history made from failure to understand all of Life’s victories were possible if you’d simply kept riding.
That your strength lay not in gambles but in never stopping. And to learn. To find your time. To wheel and turn.
I have understood my nature, but not the path it sought to take me.
It is not for me to wait, not to seek, but to ride and in my travels I shall find. And ride on.
She will come. Alongside. If she can. But that is. Was. Will be another tale where hooves have not written.