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YhwOne knows that there's no answer but one feels compelled to ask.
The question feels so natural as one goes about their tasks.
Some people hit the bottle or the needle or the flask
as the question it consumes them until there's no turning back.
You force one to confront you, world, you force one to submit,
as one starts to see they're really you, bit by bit by bit.
InterplayTo those of us for whom the universe seems to have chosen:
See that the perspective you've been given is not frozen.
Unwrap that understanding then, and stand under it, too,
As nothing but a simple trans-mission from me to you.
The salt that fires neurons take with your interpretation;
What I've said may only 'fect you if its 'presentation
Resonates the levitations and flotations of your mind;
Influenced, and framed by fate, but surely one a kind.
WouldWander upon grain of wood and feel yourself misunderstood despite attempts to reason for a doubt that helps to lesson the felt treason of the clout, eroding wind.
The pressure and the ringing, antithetical to singing, slowly slivering the seething of this most unwanted teething, clear the ram-parts. Watch the dust swirl where the feet no longer tread and the winds blow unbuffeted by apish form instead, leftover tendencies toward competition never quite resisted by petition for a more careful existence. Hard to see this.
Stream of conch-ousness, the sealess bliss of memorandum activus, the way the words cadence and twist but never stretch to stress or slip, the way the feeling fire soars to rhythms and patterns of yore, tempus from the salty shore, beats that know not what they're for, but simply are, and simply roar, cast from stars that burn with the anticipation of mystery.
Deep within the ancestry of all the felt experience is a wandering and perfect kind of witness to all brillianc
MettleA ringing has begun inside my head that will not go away.
It's gradually clearer that it's something that is here to stay.
Peeling at my mind with a forceful gentle flaying, it's
a constant shallow scream that renders silence beyond saving.
Lessons in this life's complacency surely force me to see,
that we can only pave our streets with borrowed energy.
The line I thought by luck alone was fair and straight will twist,
bending toward a rule of ground that must constantly shift.
Unexpected instability, unseemingly abating,
will let me, when distraction of greater peace, appreciate
the serendipity that helps define to us our grief,
and ultimately grant us the source of our relief.
(Relief it seems at times can become a two-way street.)
And should, in time, the situation see a new perspective,
I shall again experience the joys I thought I'd miss.
What would be a world without contrasts in this way?
Would we even know it as our empty laughter fades?
This is not to say that suff
RemindThe fevered glances 'round the room, the walls adorned with eyes.
Eyes that stare unflinchingly, projected from inside.
Twisting turns of colds and burns, unchosen circumstance.
The pins and needles in the air will beg perspective's chance.
No event that happens is intrinsically unjust.
But fear is found that this psyche has become too much.
Schizoidal nerves are too aware and urges spread too thin.
Difficulties conjuring security within.
It's all in how the look is looked, but looking's looked at too.
This meta-spective meta-shit is ruining the stew.
Now to find the pattern that will do my being kind.
To meditate the agitate out from the the core to rind.
To allow this suffocating dust to catch the winds of time.
To allow the dance that twirls and shakes, the jig that will remind.
To Be [and] Not To BeThe man sat with his chin rested on his knee, a hand wedged between for comfort as his other leg dangled over the ledge of the bridge. His mesmerized gaze followed the ephemeral, shifting waves dancing lazily upon the water's surface. Each wave was utterly passive, influenced by the one before it, but in turn influencing further waves.
When everything is equally passive, he thought, everything is also equally active.
Psychosomatic or not, he could feel the sensation of the thought as the electric pulses it was made of fired through the gray matter of his brain and specialized groups of neurons sung out frequencies in synchrony. This amazed him completely. Here he was this upright, lanky ape fully aware of the subtle sensations of the clump of evolutionarily-patterned, electrically-conductive matter that was enabling his entire experience.
With minimal effort, he flicked his leg outward and watched it swing back and forth with momentum. He thought about the c
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