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

once

upon a time I could
not taste life for 
all of the extraneous
shit I added to it
because I, for lack of
a better word for it,
truly believed that the
more you poured into
it, the more you'd get
out of it, not for a single
second comprehending
that I was actively diluting
the very thing that I was
supposed to be experiencing,

simplicity

for simplicity's sake
is a lost art, a forgotten
trove of buried
treasure, golden coins
glittering in the sun, the
constant need to
decorate, to fill, to
liven up the joint
with extemporaneous
and ultimately 
meaningless white noise, a
cacophony of sights and
sounds and feelings,
and wondering why the
experience isn't

enough

my soul cried, and
for once in my life
I listened, and took the
time to take a breath and
divest myself of the
unwanted, unneeded,
unnecessary, and began to
revel in the sublime, to
shun the additives which
were nothing more than a
cancer to my soul
which is why, when the
barista asks me how
I want my coffee, I reply

black.

"follow your passion" is such
          utter bullshit
     as if you were born
knowing
          what it is you are
passionate about

but it is much more subtle than
          canned platitudes,
     words strewn across
the pages
          of that bestselling
self-help book

you are not brought into this
          world knowing,
     as if you are destined
to create
          the next Great American
Novel

no, it is
     so much
          more subtle
               than that

passion is not an innate love
          or desire to do
     or to be or to have
it will not
          arrive on the wings
of angels

passion is that thing which
          burns in your gut
     cultivated over many
months and years
          of trying and of
failing

of fighting, and beating, the
          odds against success,
     of fighting the good 
fight until you awaken
          one morning to
find it

and when you clear your 
          mind of all the clutter
     and distractions and
metal flotsam and
          jetsam and can
see clearly

you will find there
          that one distraction
     that will not leave
and in that moment
          you will know you've
found it.