Maybe Life Is a Haystack

Maybe life is a haystack, and each of us a needle.

Isn't that what we think?

A man searches the daunting multitude for the woman who will love him and be his wife. He searches, or maybe he simply waits and hopes to be found. A woman anticipates the advent of the one--and finds him over and over again. But no, he is still not the one.

Wait.

Is life a haystack, really; and each of us a needle?

How is it then that we seek something special, uncommon, called apart from the numb milieu as if it were the one gold among more common metal? If each be a needle, and if sprigs of hay are all alike, how is it that we imagine oneness?

Maybe each in and of itself is all.

Is our search in life one of discovery or of conquest?

We are all in this world bound to find what we desire, and yet desire itself ever continues to hunger.

One has to wonder why there is a haystack in the first place, and why are there needles. These must be very special things--these wheats of hay, these salted needles, altogether like bees within a hive.

Ought not our nectar be like love?