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.
transitory.
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.
sea change.
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.
now.
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.
rain
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
black.
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.
passion.
"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.
source code.
oh! to peel back the layers
of who we think we are to see
who we actually are
no putting our best face forward
no filters, no flattering angels
peel back the layers
to reveal the inner workings
of who we are
who we actually are
beyond the bells and whistles
revealing the source code
behind who we are.
comment out the recursive loops
suspend the cascading style sheets of
the lies we tell ourselves
a simple query to find what's true
no filters, no captured variables
write me a conditional statement
so that I may answer
so that I may question
who you actually are
inside the curly braces
revealing your source code
and so much more.
let me peel off the layers of your structure
first your jacket, then your skirt
stopping for no one, nothing
a simple gesture, maybe two or three
no filters, nothing between us
the soft whirr of your internal fan
as you overheat at my touch
as your internal stack overflows
as your data flows into me
and mine into you
our source code intertwined,
an endless loop of ecstasy.
good travels.
"...a good traveler has no fixed plans
and is not intent on arriving..." -Lao Tzu
setting aside my goals, my
objectives and outcomes
I bask in the freedom of
knowing my direction but not
my destination
for isn't the journey itself where
true fulfillment lies?
the joy of discovery without
the chains of intentionality
weighing on me
setting off in the general direction
of happiness, of love
no preconceived notions of
what it looks like or what
I will find there
hope springs eternal, and informs
my every action
but what if it were not so?
why hope for one thing when
I can hope for everything?
all who wander are, indeed, not lost
and I am one of the
lucky few who now enjoy
the journey without regard
to where the road may lead
stopping to smell the roses is
no longer a struggle
when that is the whole point of
throwing a dart at the map
of my mind and of my heart
no longer concerned with arriving
no longer worried about
what will happen when I get there
subsumed in the good travels
of this world-weary traveler.
out of the blue.
out of the blue
without any sort of warning
whatsoever
completely unexpected but
welcome nonetheless
like a sudden burst of rain on
a hot summer day
you weren't there
and then you were,
an angel
or, perhaps, just a dream
a figment
of my over-active and busy
imagination
but if you are a dream
why are you still occupying
my every thought?
why are you all I can think
about?
why is your face in everything
I see?
and if you are an angel, how can
it be that you even exist
in this world?
for there are no angels, no
devils
are you as immaterial as
are they?
no, you are something else
something beautiful
something wonderful
something amazing
something pure
something else
out of the blue
with no warning, no chance
to wonder
you took my fragile heart in
your hands
you smiled your bright, shining
smile
and where there once was
nothing but emptiness and
loneliness
nothing but blacks and grays,
now a burst of color
where there was nothing, now
there is you.
horizon.
I look to the horizon
so confident am I that
my goal lies there, along with
the satisfaction that
surely must come with
a job well done
but as I move towards that
beacon of hope and completion,
it moves with me, never
allowing me the opportunity
to reach what I consider
to be my destination
and so, head down, I double
my efforts and hope for
the best, fully knowing that
I am destined to fail, for
the goalposts have been
moved, if they were ever there
but what other choice do I have
but to trudge ever onward
towards that which I will
never reach, towards that
which will always be
transitory and elusive?
so, rationale in hand and
strengthened resolve in my
heart I take another step,
and then another, so confident
am I in my journey
towards the horizon.
sit and stare.
I will sometimes sit and stare at something that's not really there and pull, fully formed, out of thin air a morning wish, an evening prayer I will sometimes sit and gaze at relationships I have set ablaze or, if you'll allow me to rephrase I wallow in my dark malaise I will sometimes sit and wonder at all the opportunities I've squandered at all the love I've torn asunder staring off into the wild blue yonder I will sometimes sit and question the hidden geometric progression of transgression and my indiscretion the difficulty of true expression I will sometimes sit and scheme desires stacked on a balance beam while all my hope just loses steam and becomes subservient to the dream I will sometimes sit and stare at apparitions not really there and all this psychological warfare was that the point of the whole affair?
