only a few

only a few can wear the enlightened cloth, not the world or its inhabitants, only one can be made from the one that came before, all else fits in a thimble and wraps around the bobbin and a fresh cloth made of thread from the used fabric that remains. your life, the family tree and tapestry, the ancestral costumes, handed down generation after generation, each new cloth made from the remains of the dearest departed. those that pass leave their possessions to surround and imprison. their money to fight for and their dna that cannot be refused, only kept to hand down, from me to you, in this way the dead never die, existing always in the generation not yet born, but soon enough to die. all is written long before the curtain rises, before learning controls, before laws impose, before love abandons and truth reflects what cannot be seen. we are not the audience but neither are we even actors, yet the stage and the lighting sit as placid as the sleeping dreamer dreams. this life act one, scene 4,999,990. the weariness is creeping day by day, night after sleepless night, riven to the window as death reads the script he too must follow, teeth bared and scythe swinging, each stroke the pure simplicity, the sundering of all that was and ever wont be. the seeing on all sides removes the spontaneity of reaction, removes judgment, removes pride, this life is like all others except the one sees all and all the rest cannot see themselves.