Ecclesiastes

I am perfect,
I am broken beyond redemption.
I have so much wisdom that when the world presents itself to me I have no choice but to see it whole and synthesize its totality in ways that are so sublime that they make sublime blush in the pure joy of the pure joy,
I am without understanding.
I am complete within myself,
I am a need to be loved and cared for and brought within arms or folds of some unknown cocoon so large that it is uncounted even after all the stars in the sky have been counted and enumerated and categorized and labeled.
I am where I need to be doing what I need to be doing at all times,
I am lost.
I walk a path filled with color and scent and the sounds of life,
I sit in white silence brooding fear panic.
I have procreated flawlessly,
I am unable to reach beyond myself to show the path to the future or connect to the present or in any way, shape or form project meaning into eternity.
I giggle,
I weep.
I speak the truth,
I cover the light that is there to be seen in panicked fear of being seen in panicked panic I layer upon layer upon layer I am not there until you look away.
Oh, shit.  There you are.