-So here we are, deep in the annals comparatively devoid of sunlight, pondering why the echo is so keen on sharing our private thoughts with subterranean walls. We look to them, these vast caverns, as perennial repositories of truth and long-standing ironies, illuminating the absurdity of quests forgotten and knowledge buried. The only granting of yerba mate and a shovel hasn't exactly unlocked our destinies but has probably spurred the bats to form a union. Or at least a Facebook page. #BatsForChange
Much is said of wisdom in the silence of the caverns, or indeed, lack thereof. Perhaps it's the echoing laughter or simply the drip of crystal-clear disillusionment assembled against the rock walls that teaches one to appreciate irony as a form of absolutely silent but ever-resonant wisdom. Probably. Perceptions of progress skitter across. A programmatic dance of shadows swiftly dissolving into dawn-like translucence. Here’s where a good flashlight becomes your best friend — and possibly, your worst enemy, as speculation flares wildly about lighthouses to nowhere.
Discover words they dare not repeat in cornered alcoves – lest one forever remain a never-was in its crepuscular existence.
The revelations, however, aren't stationed solely in the cavernous hold of hidden wonderment. Ironies aplenty wade in common puddles bored and tiresome with directionless ambitions who seek solace in torrential drips and epistemological mischiefs. We recommend, gingerly, that eternity holds no matrices nor excel sheets in pale limestone spreadsheets for its hypnotic fellow travelers. An echoed inquiry:
“Do the shadows cast their own shadows, or is that merely an estate tax?”
Easier than a direct consultation with depth psychology involving light refractors, one's answer will lead you further down or perhaps,just perhaps, back around again. Such is the nature of enlightenment as dryly summarized by cave swallows in clandestine symposiums — cleverly masked as running jokes.