a blank page is not the goal it never was and it never should have been what good would that do? why was that even a thing? concentrating on the rise and the fall, hoping for the clarity that will sweep me away in its beauty and surprise but its really not like that, is it? do I count? do I note? equanimity escapes me as it always does, so with a tone of self-compassion I begin again striving to do what I love, but why is it simultaneously so easy and so hard? so difficult such a simple task, it can never end but there is joy in the enjoyment, in the attempt, in the breathing, in the practice the recognition is the attention, the failure is the success.
oh! my literary existentialism bordering on despair my whiny and strangulated vocals these towering synthesizers and guitars are my cure this experimental new wave of reggae and ska is evidence of my bad religion as I rise against the sublime, and no doubt birth this clash my adherence to the traditional to the culture that is my heritage and is sorely vexed I will use more words and say more things evidence of my kinks do I embrace this division of joy? can I stomach the social distortion of all the talking heads on my television? this is my nirvana, my jam.
I left my home the comfort and serenity to find the happiness that had eluded me for so long I looked high and low behind every nook and every cranny to find the happiness that I craved I traveled from town to town city to city country to country to find the happiness that had evaded me for so long and after I had exhausted every means at my disposal every opportunity that I thought might lead to the answer I returned home only to find it there as I slumped into the couch there between the cushions where it had fallen out of my pocket the night before.
touching always tempting uplifting my soul never far from my inebriated heart appetite with no end magical moments ardently alluring ravishing and risque impish and irrepressive ecstasy in the extreme tender and thoughtful hauntingly heartfelt overflowing joie de vivre mischievously playful adorable and ageless seductively her
sometimes when you're not here I can still hear your voice I can still see your face I can't wait for your return sometimes when you're not here I wonder when you'll return I wonder why you had to go I wander the halls alone sometimes when you're not here I'm counting the minutes until your next text I'm counting the hours which seem like days I'm counting the days which seem like months time crawls sometimes I wander the halls of my mind I wonder how you do it I wonder when you'll do it again when you're not here always I am anxious for your return I miss your face I long to hear your voice when you're not here always and when you walk through my door and wrap your arms around me and your lips touch mine I feel alive again always
thoughts ever present ever elusive never ending turn into words often spoken often misunderstood never softened turn into actions mindless, mindful without thought purposeless motion lead to habits unconscious, blind too weak to notice too strong to break become your character who you are who you are not who you aspire to be becomes your destiny.
aspiration not the head-in-the-clouds, if only this would work out, why don't things go my way? rut we talk ourselves into and not the idle fantasies that lull us to sleep, perchance to dream, am I more than you really bargained for? but rather the dream that will become the reality for the next day, or week, or month, or year, to infinity and beyond breathe in and breathe out this is the aspiration that I aspire to this chilly February morning focus with intent with caring with clarity with purpose aspiration fleeting, fickle, vacillatory my dreams and my breath focus on one leads to clearer focus on the other each new day brings new breath brings new dreams brings new opportunities to dream to breathe to be.
I am never sure where one thought ends and the next one begins so active is my monkey mind like an endless intellectual wikipedia black hole jumping from one subject to the next without regard to context and I struggle with knowing when to allow the thoughts and when to ask "does this matter?" but the trick, as it turns out is hiding in plain sight to recognize the torrent of thoughts and allow them to take shape investigating each one in its own right, valid in and of itself, eschewing self-identification each thought is of me, but is not me, each distraction an opportunity.
all good things come to those who wait never come easy must come to an end transition is inevitable transitory a good thing if I can dream it I can make it happen but can I? should I? is this the way? can I not believe that it will just happen? that it is for the best? that I have no real control? this is the struggle inaction versus acceptance knowing when to hold and when to fold and wisdom is found in the knowing the accepting the believing respond, not react simplicity itself yet the most difficult thing of all.
if it were easy then there would be no need to practice no need to sit still no need to breathe if it were simple then there would be no need to explain no need to study no need to learn if it were obvious then there would be less skepticism fewer distractions more adherents if it were routine then there would be no call to action no controversy no sea change if it were easy then there would be no need no pain no desire only peace.
if I were able to give you the past, wrapped up like a present and given on Christmas Eve or give you the future, either dream or reality, whichever you preferred or give you some mix, some combination, of what was, once, and what is to be, or give you neither as if time and space were under my command to give, I would fail on all counts because the truth is the future and the past do not exist, as such, in any meaningful way and the bitter truth is this: there is no past, there is no future, they cannot exist. it is always now.
recognizing that as far as I've come there is so much farther left to go that as close as I've come I can get closer still breathe in allowing the thoughts to wash over me, rapid-fire seeing them for what they are, meaningless in and of themselves breathe out investigating the purpose behind the deluge of thoughts monkey mind on steroids here and then gone like a summer squall breathe in non-identification with the torrent of internal criticism my thoughts are not me they are of me but do not define me breathe out breathe in breathe out breathe