Paradise, whither?

Every year, at about this time, I mourn the paradise I remember from so long ago. There was no casting out. Only an inevitable journey. With every year, I seem to be further from the paradise I remember, and yet, the door to everything that really matters to me is deep within my own spirit.

I am reckoned, broadly, to be numbered in the wealthiest 1% of the world's population. I have abundant food, a comfortable home, my own personal transport, more than one computer, and obviously, internet and telephone communications.

But I don't own my soul.

I made no pact with the devil. But I sold my soul to my creator, who is best able to keep it. And I receive in return? reconciliation. The assurance that someday I will return to that paradise that now is only a memory, never again to leave.