I was left to myself a few years ago and found that I could do something with myself. I was left with a sense of purpose of wanting to prove something about something for something. It was clear then what I would be doing, or so I thought. And as I continue in my practice I find a silence to my past and motivations that came from it. I find a stillness too unreal and I leave to check for what I had set upon. It does not seem to come to me. And I wonder about the boy who left me to seek: I can not imagine anything. I can only be what I have set out to be, but who set out in the first place I do not know. There was a sense of this person left in me, but perhaps soon, he will be gone, and I will be left to contemplate what quest he has so solemnly set, for me.