One small dot
In an infinite abyss.
Lives our world
And every lover's kiss.
Be humble in love.
Do not close the door.
Live inside comedy.
And never shun the poor.
Touch all of life.
Before the end is nigh.
Embrace the stars.
Be not afraid to cry.
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 9:08 AM UTC
Once upon a time
I thought that love was unity
Making the two one.
An evanescence into the godhead.
Now I see it differently.
Dancing with duality.
Enjoying the space between us.
Without insecurity.
rejoicing in the present.
Not to shackle the future of another.
Nor to covet their past.
but to be here now.
With a listening ear and a glistening heart.
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 7:36 AM UTC
The flower has no pride.
No certainty.
Yet it rises to meet the sun.
And does not wait for the sun to fall.
Nor insists that light is owed to it.
The flower does not lie to itself.
Living in harmony.
It knows when water is needed.
And knows it is not a weakness.
The flower isn't afraid of sin.
Nor seeks to please the birds and trees.
It strives for the sake of striving.
And beauty is a consequence.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 1:46 PM UTC
What a haze everything has become
The nausea of being follows me everywhere
The old remedies no longer work
My self is nothing but the sum of strivings
Negating some, I feel as dull as tar water
But it is hard to get the cogs to turn again
Without answering why I want them to turn
When I am exiled back home, my telos dies
The mastery disappears
The birdsong drowns it
And every time
Yes every time
The unspeakable religion rears its head
But this time, it rears to a different ego
One embedded in another person
But it laughs at the turmoils of such
It renders me unable to see it seriously
Which makes it impossible to sustain
I am tired of the same deliberations
So deeply tired.
I thought that confronting the unconscious would aid me.
But intellectual confrontation is nothing.
How can I love myself when I cannot find myself?
Only noise and the nausea of being.
I pray for the cogs to turn again soon.
Aug 9, 2025
Aug 9, 2025 at 7:46 PM UTC
Hard rocks
Below my feet.
A songbird sings.
I start to weep.
A steaming teapot
Sat on the wall.
A cool breeze.
I start to bawl.
A lonely leaf
kisses the lake.
The branch softens.
It does not break.
A moss-coated doorframe
Water dripping down.
A splash on my forehead
Lifts up my frown.
Moonlight in the panes
Sharp like a dagger.
Cuts through thought.
My mind starts to stagger.
A hand-woven pillow
my head it shall meet.
The owl sings.
My soul falls asleep.
Jul 25, 2025
Jul 25, 2025 at 8:48 PM UTC
Groundlessness is not to be tamed.
Certainty is not an achievement.
A tension deeply ill-famed.
Its presence a call for bereavement.
pondering my future is bootless.
No more thought shall spring actions.
Ten thousand words are fruitless.
The mind fragmented into factions.
The milk of uncertainty is thought.
Only stillness discloses the true.
Creativity cannot be taught.
From chaos it shall brew.
Groundlessness cannot be tamed.
Nor shalI I try to resist.
Let this tension be named.
And on my life shall persist.
Jul 24, 2025
Jul 24, 2025 at 8:03 PM UTC
A sip of melancholic Earl Grey rekindles emotion
Glancing out of my window at the great commotion
Birds whisper melodies that beckon my mind into security
But still, something feels awry, dampening such purity
I can tolerate great loss of things, but not of meaning
I am not a mere prop in someone else’s dreaming.
A life without depth, is a life without death.
“Life’s but a walking shadow”, says Macbeth.
The office is a concrete asylum, a prison for curiosity.
Glances of joy afloat an ocean of animosity.
I cannot bear all this, whilst those trees beckon me in.
Without attachment, I would be there in a whim.
But obligations borne of fear bind my feet.
I cannot cross this grey, sombre street.
Freedom waves at me from the other side.
I can only wave back from the depths inside.
If I voice my fears about this nihilistic abyss.
I will be a prop out of action, dropped and dismissed.
I still sit here with my tea, my soul in a tangle.
Do I bury these roots, leaving them to mangle?
Maybe these worries will pass away in the morning.
When I am back in work, and a new day is dawning.
Maybe I shall never act, and take this to my grave.
Or shall I reconquer my soul, become what is brave.
A man cannot hide from truth without his soul crumbling.
His mind shall return to it, despite its tumbling.
And here I am, on a Sunday evening, letting it fester.
Watching it mock me like the most honest jester.
And that is okay, for it reminds me that I am living.
Oh, beautiful Sunday, your honesty keeps on giving.
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 5:46 PM UTC