O traveler assured of God's mercy!
Life is full of adversity sweet, and gains leaving empty.
He who is truly assured has no peace, and the doubter is quite at rest.
The ear on true silence does not find peace, but continual affliction.
Each message conveyed is a step into the mind.
The mind, an ocean with no shore.
Silence is not a person.
Silence is an idea of the mind.
The mind is abstracted from reality: pure imagination.
Is there a soul separate from the mind?
Is there enlightenment separate from the mind?
As the universe is continually vibrating and changing in entropy, so too the mind can never stop, so use it for enlightenment!
But transcending is the fruit of the mind, the fruit of the soul, and the fruit of the physical body.
This is why I sit, and I believe my writing will bring me closer to this.

Emma

Studying, studying, working, and sitting in zen.
She mothers her child and tends her home.
A denizen of her city's life, an outing here and there.
I see her as compartmentalized in all her facets.
Reading, reading, writing, writing.
So competent she is.
Dealing with life's struggles - they are so big to her if she compares them to all her angles.
When will she be mine? society makes me say.
But when will I be mine and she be hers, when will we take time for ourselves?
For we have so many things to contemplate, so much knowledge to fulfill.
We go to the school of God together, in college now we are.
Why take time to love when insights guide our star?
So take a break from the affection, accomplish your goals thus far.
The next time we see each other we'll have grown so much.
I want to be a better me, and see you a better you.
Let's share only the best fruits and rarest blossoms.
For life is so mundane if not working toward them.

When attributes like courtesy seem insincere, what ails me?
The litany of my words drowns out all others.
My words are for me, not necessarily the reader.
This voyage I was on by myself.
Who invited the entourage?
Affection and love have no existence here, He says.
This is the arena of insight, not imitation, He declares.
The truly righteous know that sincerity is the king of courtesy.
O Hashem, stop my words, stop my attributes, for evil awoke me four hours ago on this mat, and I know that that soul awaits truth.
I have 1st world problems in a city of Ahriman.
Will I be despondent enough to know their pain?
Or will their plight spark my vanity again?
Sometimes silence exalts the downtrodden in the head of those who have had it easy.
If your heart be so far away, how can I come to thee through small talk?
There must be something true to you that would ignite the fire of Hashem.

I am the power of literacy,
The power of the written word,
The power of the tongue.
I am not the color of my skin, but the content of my mind.

I prefer silence to news.
I prefer to vote for the party of lesser evil than write-ins.
I prefer religion to politics.
I prefer oneness to distinction.
I prefer coffee to alcohol.
I prefer cigarettes to refer.
I prefer nutmeg to LSD.
If I could give all these up except one, I would prefer oneness.

Movement and shout has been given to the world.
Who wants to spend time in stillness and silence?
Me who listens to the reverberation of these frequencies, and observes their form and colors.
Silence listens most to the unheard.
In it my consciousness forms a likeness of myself.
Mine is like that white guy with a buzz cut, who sees truth for himself, and has a wider than thin musculature (medium).
How similar are "we" really to put every white guy with a buzz cut with a medium build who rejects the conformal truth prevalent in this country and time?
Why should they be the sidhas that my mind shows me?
What is their power?
Their eyes show the imperfection of a tattoo.
That inkish black stare.
Those creases on the forehead.
That perplexed point on the brow.
That hair so short as to wonder its color, introducimg itself in the eye brows, the white skull cap, and even the short spotty beard.
The shadows between lights portrays more gray than black and white.
The gray of prison bars, the gray of streets, the gray of rain clouds.
With all the fancy of a toilet bowl.
With all the luxury of a walk.
More a "Beastie Boy" than an "Eminem".
More a Jew than a Christian.
More a Baha'i than a Muslim.
More a Buddhist than a Hindu.
When will shade and utility become beauty?

Sometimes silence has little use.
The "made white" ghost even feels silence a burden.

Sirens call "them" to me.
Wicked Caucasians here mostly.
Is it circumstance that calls my back to be straight?
Poor Caucasians drunk, violent, mischievous, or in possession.
Why do we do it?
Are we fed up with the powers of the world, so we lash out against what we see is their society?
Is it really a lack of gratitude for the wisdom that the hand of God has dealt?
For we are all equal/united in wealth, for God's wealth is in the possession of the poor and God's destitution is in the possession of the material wealthy.
But if ignorant of this unity, or in doubt of it, who can help one in rebellion against God?
For those who we think are more powerful, really abide by the "unity of station" where no one is exalted above another. For exaltation and righteousness is expressed in apparent abasement and wickedness.
For many an outer bad deed has hidden an inner good deed.
Can we not be agreed?

The city sitter looks like the constituents of the city.
Silence goes to those who need safety the most.
Silence is not a light, but is usually unconsciously directed toward mercy for me, as my countenance is covered by its past.
Silence goes first to the wicked.