What does it mean that my logic and reasoning could solve a problem?
Meaning the one who gave me the problem could solve it already.
Yet there are those who have gone through all the courses of problems, all ending in relatively the same place mentally.
However, there are still problems they can't solve.
What does it take for a breakthrough?

To know when to employ math known to mankind and when I can't.
To know when I need something new or when I can use something old.
This, I believe, is the crux of the matter.
Otherwise, I try to invent new what is already done and so go nowhere except to prove to myself what all these people knew from a different perspective.

Learning for me must come from a need to end my ignorance rather than to further my understanding inasmuch as furthering understanding is infinite while becoming tired of my ignorance happens after a period of time after learning something new.

The universe and all it's organizing power must sing in my soul it's anthem of mystery before I can crack a book.

How do I speak of my love for you without any ludeness?
Why are you such a ****** creature to me?
There is no dimension which is not ****** to me, why?
That you have never spoken about any theory? Or any event?
Should you not just be detached from the world to me?
Not concerned with the wider world, but with your own people?

She concentrates on attracting others.
She wants good money, a good job to get the things she wants.
I try to find a way within to behold her desire, her beauty.
Like there was a secret door that could make her step out of my body and into my room.
Like my heart must subtly feel for her presence.
I must make her my goddess to be worshipped in the land of beauty.
To let my heart be swept up in her world of people.
People talked about, people hated and loved.
A world of opinions about people.
So many people.

I fear her beauty will one day fade.
Not in ten years, or even twenty years perhaps.
But later in life.
I hope that by that time her world will grow beyond people, beyond drinking and fun.
I hope she reflects on her life, and comes to great discoveries about herself.
But she reminds me of the song "girls just want to have fun".
I've never known how to be with that kind of girl except to drink, smoke, or do the drugs that they are doing.
At that point I become an experiencer who thinks only of my reality.
The other people, even her, would become secondary.
I would seek the mysteries of reality and seek to explain them.
To unravel what aspects of life are that could build a bridge to the mystery.

Yes, she is a beauty to behold, a dear to interact with.
But I feel my destiny of love lies elsewhere, not in ****** beauty, but in beauty of thought.

Disbelief or doubt is my natural disposition.
With this I try to explain away what is inconclusive.
To a Christian leader, I have another gospel, so my prophet is false.
To a Muslim, I am an imposter because I believe in innovation.
To a Jew, I am not of the Chosen Ones.
To an atheist, I am unreasonable or delusive.
To a Buddhist, I cannot attain enlightenment.
Thus, to the secret societies of belief, I am a disbeliever, mad, and ignorant, going to hell, karmic or not, or to die a mortal death.

How can my healthy doubt have any way with explanation?
To incorporate the masses, we provide governments and universally make declarations as the United Nations.

Should I lose belief to satsify the masses: agreeing with them that I'm a disbeliever and coming to terms with atheists?

Just stand for love and unity.

Thought, memory, future, imagination.
2. Self, will, reflection.
3. Organization.
4. Universe, events.
5. Body, people.
6. Emotion.
7. Virtues.

Scattering amplitudes and galactic momentum horizons prove that observation needs a proof, so what does trying to make up on observation do?
It is like trying to peer in another universe.
This is what consumed me trying to come up with theories in physics.
Yet it is still done today, although the theorists have quite selective imaginations.
Even in peer reviewed papers, any theory without evidence is treated just as a child's imagination.

The graviton is so allusive.
We observe that it must exist due to larger observations, yet we don't have the measuring device to see it scatter.
Even if we could, it may create what would keep it shrouded.
I conclude that until I observe something big, I will not try to observe its qualities, and if I notice something small, I'll remind myself that it came from something big.

There must be no other way than approaching a math problem without notes.
Going into it with only the last few pages of work, which probably doesn't even give the answer.

What I envy is having one problem that a mathematician wishes to work on, and doesn't give up until she has exasperated every nook.
For me, that problem would have to so boggle the mind that it would seem like I would have to invent something just to make it work.
No, I'm not one to finish calculating a list of unknowns to come up with a super-law.
No, I'm one to invent from nothing.
Challenge authority.
I say I can prove that a tangent plane can intersect a sphere in two points.
It seems silly, but think what a new math could do!
I must use all my psychic powers to do so, but don't tell anyone, just between me and you.
Think of the possibilities!

Grassmannian scattering amplitudes.
Galaxies with momentum horizons.
Galaxies moving in different directions at different speeds.

Still haven't found the graviton.
Colliders.
Huge interferometers.

Any work here seems like a lot of teamwork in companies.
I'm a drop in the bucket, whose feeling is my enemy if I am to manage complexity.

So one part of me says "just do it, do the problems I have prepared to do".
But I feel I'm missing a level of management of the field, like I'm not getting the big picture.
It is said: from point to expanse to point and back again.
Am I looking for a shortcut?
Learning purifies, it reveals what is now impossible to see.

A lack of study?
I know all the fundamental theories of physics and elementary calculations.
I know of all the branches of math and where they lead.
All of my notes of formulas are unused.
It's good that I studied electronics to know what focusing on math and physics gets me after graduation.
What really stays with me is what electronics isn't, but also how basic it is.
This is what I now expect for this endeavor.
The less help I get in it, the longer it takes.
Muhammad, pbuh, said get half of your knowledge from others and half from yourself.
But it is hard to tell what is from me.
Is my work the only thing: He meaning only let help solve half my problems?

There is:
1. What I need to work on
2. What I want to work on
3. Gain a degree of simplicity
4. Understanding what work is not

Studies show that novices often pay attention to different elements in a problem than experts.
I gain more from being asked a question that is impossible to answer than solving a question for computation's sake.
How do I know why a plane tangent to a sphere can only intersect at one point?
I knew that before I did the problem, but I wasn't aware I was trying to disprove that!
Like trying to make black pigment out of only yellow and blue.
No, that's too simple.
It is like nothing I ever experienced!
I was unaware of the use of the elements.
It is one thing to read a theory, to copy an equation, but to go through problems makes me experience the elements in ways I never knew.
To know limitations I was blind to because I had never tried to connect them before.
That is why experts can zero in on a problem so fast, and why novices are snagged on basics.

This excursion into the expanse has ended with a knowledge of the love of math problems.

This is our last day together.
All of you I want to remember.
Parting ways, everlasting gaze,
will there be better days for us?
Or will you be the best I ever had?

This is our last day together.
All of you I want to remember.
We've had some good times together.
Remember our righteous heartache.
All light soon will start to fade away.

This is our last day together.
All of you I want to remember.
You made me sparkle in my heart.
Free now, how do I even start?
It was hard together, harder to part.

This is our last day together.
All of you I want to remember.
It wasn't about me or you.
It was about us always true.
Can I even say what will come to pass?

This is our last day together.
All of you I want to remember.
I'll be alone without you though.
Eternal tears, but feelings fade.
But I'll keep you tucked away from the storms.

This is our last day together.
All of you I want to remember.

This is our last day together.
All of you I want to remember.

This is our last day together.
All of you I want to re-mem-ber.

Half of math is knowing the possibilities.
The other half is knowing the impossibilities.
One without the other is not reality.
If you live only in the possible, then math is not for you.

To a dishwasher, an invention might be to wash a dish that has never been clean.
To a mathematician, an invention might be to solve a problem that has never been solved.
Both are very tricky and I want to give up before I start.
Both take "grease" and a will to come back time and time again.

Words, words hurt even if they are just restating facts.
Facts somehow now twisted by how they were originally delivered.
Passing on information to people I think should know.
Know for my heart, know for my peace of mind.
But jealousy it seems should always be forgotten.
Talking about it magnifies it beyond what it is, just slight and simple.
I made a man into a monster in her eyes.
Something he doesn't deserve.
I sit in the midst of a love triangle in which the woman doesn't want either of us.
She just wanted to be friends with both of us.
Now her urge to be more intimate with me as a friend is blocked by a barrage of concentration on a subject that should be so light and whimsical.
And a friend who had his heart crushed by seeing that intimacy.
I feel like a wolf, these words bite and wrangle, and won't dissipate for 100 years, says Muhammad, pbuh.
I always think work will become easier, but tests multiply, and it stays hard - hard in heart.

Math must be seen as a spiritual practice or else the ego will never be satisfied.
Math is a way to enlightenment, a way to gain invisible bestowals.
To further the field of mathematics is in the hands of God.
The difference in views is restless dissatisfaction versus equanimity.

Math problems usually don't use imagination, but physics has been helped by reflective similes when the math is correct.

SPIRIT
It seems my reality is connected to 'Abdu'l-Baha and Baha'u'llah inasmuch as I recite their words.  Also, the Bab.  Perhaps too Muhammad inasmuch as I obey Hadith and read the Qur'an.  Is my lack of reality really God? What does it mean to be God's servant but not His son? That seriousness born of the Seal of the Prophets? Or, that seriousness born of irresponsibility and wickedness? What can come from mere presence? "This cyclic scheme is to Him but a stare." Thoughts of Hindu statues of the gods and goddesses. Yes, the spiritual reality doesn't work for me at command. It doesn't entertain me either. It usually requires some input to show me anything.

MIND
That lack of any changing form going through my mind. Thoughts of a previous text and its sender. Conversations via text. The heart feels betrayed by a friend for not showing up. Memories of my friend's neighborhood. Anything of substance except the interactions I have on my phone and the memories which our words and persons reveal? Do I have any unconscious left? Anything hiding? Fears of reincarnation. Anxiety about work due to not staying in the "now". Unfulfilled plans of society. Is there anyone coming to my Group of Silence devotional? Odds unlikely. Alone on Zoom.

The conviction of medication and meditation, which changed my D's and F's into A's and B's in college. My lack of use of the knowledge I gained. Still hopeful of discovering some new form of mathematics, even if on my deathbed - I'm guessing around 80 if I keep smoking.

"There is no pain you are receding" and "*******" whisper in my mind. "Comfortably numb" - it seems like the highest spiritual state, but a state of incapacity for the investigating mind. "Is there anybody in there?" A German seven that looks like kanji.

BODY
Maybe a serious eye? Those eyes with nothing to do. Can a mirror not truly tell me about myself? For what information can come from a blank stare? A ****** in the nose. A worry-filled stare. One ear a little pulled out due to wearing COVID masks. I haven't trimmed my beard for five days. I haven't gotten a new face. My eyes are the same color. My hair, not darker nor lighter. The bags under my eyes betrays youths. My distinguished, yet still rounded cheeks. My beard hides my ****-chin. My less distinguished jaw, ovalish but with a point. Those searching eyes. A neck with so much stress built up that I unconsciously twist and crack it. Memory of the first time it spasmed. Vitamin care. Laundry drying. It must be this blank stare that is highest of high, that can be low, low.  I rub my scalp to ease muscle tension. I think about aligning my chakras, but a blank stare seems more worthwhile.

I consider smoking a touch of nutmeg, but I'm concerned how anxious it will make me, and how I lack ability in communication afterwards. I make coffee, a caffeine high will do. The cream gives me comfort. The workers getting off work add to my austerity. All those songs stored in neurons of my brain, waiting to be plugged-in. Somehow old rock songs from the 70's give me a place.

Now that beautiful lady appears to me saying "come, come" or rather "***, ***". I was so empty of everything, and she now fills my brain with connections to desire. I give in to the pressure and put a small dob of nutmeg on the end of my cigarette. Not enough for a full high, but just a little joy. Now there is experience and experiencer, not just a blank stare.

I can see my *** stare. I am as a baby in my mother's arms, I am so irresponsible. My body is a temple, with rooms, that I'm somehow detached from as if I'm in a dream witnessing it. Now I swim in this temple but I am not its fullness. I am not its command. I am no longer the tree but the twig. I am this plant called nutmeg. This is my vibration - pharmaceutical.

My buzz cut portrays a Buddhist monk's sitting. My coworker cut off all her hair once. Is she monkish as well? My body, as a sitter, full of reflection, why is this such an archetype? Does it know all, no, it only knows one, me. Is that all I am required of? To know simply me. Is there anything of depth in me?

Repose in my eye. I think of the faithful not under the influence. Have I missed a spark of truth which I would've found? My browline reminds me of a Klingon. So aggressive. I rock back and forth and around and around. I'm mixing this tonic drink in my skull. Is my body too full and big for my neck and head? how much does it matter? When will I do my next ab workout?

Memories of doing nutmeg, the cool let down off the high. The feeling it will never really subside.  Moving around in my seat like a Sufi dancer. Looking like I'm a ghost in the machine. The wetness of the white in my eye portrays tears of passion for Chloe. The residue of oil on my brow and cheek portrays sweating out the nutmeg.

My chrome dome and short beard remind me of a wizard, rather of my high school physics teacher. Science seems like wizardry at times. Contorting my face with my hands shows all sorts of masks: Asian clown and Cabbage Patch doll. Pressing on my forehead makes me look Romulan. Contorting my nose to a pig's or what I see as an English nobleman.

My head swings around like a medieval flail. Like I'm in a roller coaster. Like an Indian in devotion. Like a magician performing an act. Like a wolf ripping apart its prey. Like the monks who hit their heads with boards in "Camelot": "Oh ee eh Oh dominae, Oh ee eh Oh requi eh". Coming to the conclusion that the body doesn't change so quickly that it can by observed. But when I consciously change it, similitudes appear from memory.

CONCLUSION
Is all observation a metaphor or simile? Or, judgment and reason made out of a group of observations? Math is made from first geometry: a basic point, and then a line. Math is a physical reality, or abstractions from basic physical reality. Therefore, speaking merely in basic simile is also an abstraction from physical reality.

All there is is the physical.  Mind is due to my frontal lobe. Spirit is reduced to feeling, even if transcending regular feeling - mere EMF pattern of the body.

Math is switching always between calculation and visualization.
Usually more time is spent understanding how to do a problem than actually calculating them.

"I just graduated from high school, what should I do now?"
There are some things to consider first.
1. Muhammad, pbuh, said that no one can take away the knowledge you're destined to have.
2. Self-directed learning is the highest form of knowledge, and in India the highest recognized scholars are self-taught.
3. There are free courses, videos, and lessons online in every field often done by some of the brightest minds, and textbooks for sale online.
4. Study one course or book at a time. Separate books that require study from books just for fun.
5. If you decide to go down this path, know that it is governed by motivation and this can change direction, often in conflict with true will, so be patient. Sometimes it can take years to finish a book.
6. I knew none of this when I was your age.

The details are supposed to merge with the general branch of knowledge.
The general branch is where the "notes are played" as I see fit - the imagination comes alive.
All other branches meet at the trunk, the mind and heart, where the One exists.

Just awareness.

Thoughts too deep to be fathomed on the surface.
Such as "woman" which alludes mere objective reality.
It employs the heart, which gives only desirous and love thoughts, which even more so alludes singularity, but rather a memory of 10,000 women's pictures are categorized by the brain.
This in itself is taxing for any outer organization.
It is done by the brain by simply pulling out the latest woman on my mind.
The mind an old house of files and recordings which can't all be accessed, and when I write that the master of the house says "but here" and shows me a random memory.
Proving only that a random record can be accessed.

Why must love start to be forbidden by age differences, work settings, and lifestyle differences?
Doesn't love have any sense?
Her eyes are inviting and her body is youthful and vital.
A ripe peach.
The heart is so material, more than the brain.
The brain reasons, gives levels, and categorizes.
The heart simply loves.
It is sheer feeling.
The deepest seat of imagination.
Can she "feel my heart beating" in my wish that she was happy, that my love could be expressed?
Does she "feel the same, or am I only dreaming?"
The heart has such lasting imaginations.
They consume the attention and won't allow it to wander away.
The heart laughs because the eyes are mere spectators of the heart.
The heart says "I am reality".
It's more immune to observations, it is harder to change its interests.

My heart must cling to another heart every night, and my body sometimes adulterizes the heart I hold so dear.
I'm never alone in the imagination of the heart.

True love feels the same whether it is shared or not.
It makes the blood pump a little harder, and blush with joy.
The difference is its materialization.
Once love materializes the desire is met with responsibility.
The truest heart is the one that has consummated the least love.

Maybe when the brain is most fundamental, the neuron groups respond in the most redundant way.
The back of the brain receives energy, the side lobes transmit thoughts, the central core is silent, the frontal lobe is afraid to erupt without reason.
The heart desires love, the ******- *******, the stomach-food, and the palate-wetness.
The body containing many rooms dedicated to different functions, where I am the observer of all of them.
Each room a mechanical device operating in autonomy.
And me with the reflective capacity to witness it work.

My eyes are so full of joy from a day spent with a dear friend.
We climbed into the mountains of our hearts.
What could be a greater adventure?
We sang our thoughts to each other.
I learned how to better be.
As you ignored my small talk while parting, we both knew we were meant for these mountains, and not the common plains.

Last moment's image of my eye's pupil causes it to look like drops of ink.
That is, along with the muscles of the eye and face.
The blood rush from the back of the eye changes the color of the pupil.
The blue of my iris gets mistaken for my pupil.
Blue dispersing back from the eye changes it too.
Green is simply the 'filling-in' phenomenon.
Same with yellow.

Are dreams merely a filling-in between life lived from one day to the next?
Is spiritual vision merely a filling-in of beliefs with physical sight?

O night that has eclipsed tomorrow's day.
O joy born of nutmeg.
You are just like the joy without you, only I find it through digestion of food and sweets, cigarettes and coffee.
In any case that joy is a gradual climb unlike nutmeg.
Should you be God's word among others?

O neck of pain,
O joints of strain.
O look without word.
O look without attribute.
Light aligns in columns to thee.
Now light a leaning tower.
Now a horizontal bar.
My light is put out by eye's lens.
*My consciousness puts out my stare.

I find inducing sleep helps me transcend thought and emotion.
"You're sleeping while sitting?"
It's like holding a thought of sleep to transcend thoughts.
Maybe I should just go back to 'just observing'.

Transcending mind and emotion is a half in this world half in the dream world reality. "Like a new moon came into conjunction with a full moon."

The sleepier I am, the more present I am.

The more aware I am, the more closed my eye is.

OM unfolds on my inner tongue.

My eye tells me I'm still 17 years old.
Sharing time with these classmates,
Their strength and compassion.
I am my criminal acts and the response which the law made against me.
Why did I hide my light of character in them?
To refuse my brother's good?
That I may stand with my own eyes - evil though they be?
For to live always under the guise of another's eyes is not justice.

My Self is rooted in a larger city than mine.
My Self is rooted in male comradery.
My Self falls into a group. The group isn't universal for all my traits though.
Thus comradery isn't a universal attribute in this sense.
However, if I feel I need comradery, and I'm not in familiar surroundings, I can shift to a reality of the oneness of humanity, where all share the same home.

Mad, perplexed, or sleepy.
That's when I see me.
My body isn't an image of God, it's more like static on TV.
I am crime, in my prime.
About as rich as a dime.
It is forever mine.
I face darkness in the essence of my look.
No book can make me sparkle,
No knowledge can make me beautiful.

Criminal eyes turned kind.
Why is black and white not gray?
My brow tells me more about me than my eyes.
My soft chin reveals a thin film of true vision.
Like I'm choking on reality.
My lines mingle on my forehead.
Seeing my transgressions make me know who I am, that I am not what I imagine, but what I do.
All the thieving and vandalism truly made me fall from heaven.
Sins against property.

I'm saying "my goodness" when perplexity perfectly meets madness.
I teach myself to nevermind true sadness.
Sad is what I am when I'm searching for me in another man.
A man of good deeds outshines me.
He makes my weak structures safe.
He makes me fear of the kingdom in his eye.
But I didn't see him as a child.
He tried to fix something that he never could.
He doesn't realize that a true Self could be found in darkness.
Yet when compared to recent crimes, I'm as pure as 0.995.
I'll never be as original as old rhymes.
Words need vision behind them.
But I always see the same thing.
I see floaters in my eyes.
What matters is when I recognize me in every part.
I see the good in me and it can't be me.
I can only be my crime, my knowledge of mercy, or the fear of God.
Fear in His Name is not the same as fear of His Self.

If left to nothing, I am ******.
If left to nothing, I am expressive but not intellectual.
If left to nothing, my thoughts make no logical point though.
If left to nothing, my time fills with sleep.
If left to nothing, I work with my hands doing simple things
If left to nothing, I only study what I perceive.
I can only see my Self as a criminal.
The Self hides the thought.
The Self makes a point.
The light shows it's greater than darkness.
My Self tries to copy their brightness.
While I take glory in unkindness.
My Self is joined by God governance.
I'm cast away for hypocrisy.
I'm left to gather intentions, see.
I can never again be the first elect.
I am forced to recollect.
Their fairness makes me their equal.
My spiritual station is with God not the people.
Madness is my true Self.
Victimhood is my true wealth.
Displaced is the eye from my story.
What's left is a body - no glory.
My light itself is lost and perplexed.
These words getting me to the next.
I see someone worse off, I just want to bless.
I see the eyes of the Local Spiritual Assembly.
It's an understanding and not my reality.
I see the moral understanding.
I have almost no share in its standing.
Their light is weaker than darkness
My light is just blindness.
Anger is truth
Perplexity is truth.
Friendship is a lie.
Mercy allows me to know why
Safety comes before playfulness.

Timid eyes.

Perplexity is hidden in head space.
Perplexity is hidden in grace.
Perplexity is hidden in these affirmations.
Perplexity is blinded to worry and manifests fear.
Fear begets courage.
And perplexity hides in that too.
History hides a lot of confusion.
Perplexity is blinded by knowledge.
Perplexity is still hidden in college.
And knowledge is a trained phenomenon.
But training has no skill set to One without a question:
Balking at knowledge because the training does not produce it.
It produces a branch of knowledge that is always incomplete.
Thus, a degree is only a measure of completeness.
The rising of the completeness puts out the fire.
A stammering tongue has no place here.
Let me say something while you check your notes
Passive listener, scratch the back of your head because this wasn't prepared for.
Nice is true to my style.
Conditioned by the miles I've walked.
This is not for your entertainment.
This is about word placement.
Uncovering the person that I am.

Ear worms during zen prove that left to nothing, popular culture will take my attention.
So let them create their music: an evil in the Hadiths of Islam, and a degradation in the Pali Canon.
Music's flames burn away the veins and stupify the mind.
The heart is replaced with straw and the liver is poisoned.

Baha'u'llah said music is lawful as long as it uplifts the spirit.
But I say:
It eats the organs, toxifies the blood.
It makes me forgetful of liberation.
Its words are idols against the Path.
It masks the senses.
It trivializes reason.
It points the disposition into darkness upon darkness.
It deafens the ears.

It lightens the body.
It stammers the sense of smell.
It invades attention and enslaves the mind.
It dries the throat.
It displaces the sense of location.

People sing a song
Put away your ****.
Let's run a race
To see the Master's face.
Wizard with chalk
Seeing stronger than a hawk.
Genius of a deed
A person without greed.

Island unto me
A reason to just be.
Island unto me
A reason to just be.

Does God have a name?
I think it's a shame.
We all wanna talk
Can we even stop?
Books are fun
Living without a gun.
Silence is a key
A key to mystery.

Island unto me
A reason to just be.
Island unto me
a reason to just be.

Reality is the road to truth, truth is the destination of the road.
Understanding is the feet carrying me on the road.
Bliss is the person waiting at the destination.
My feet are mistaken for the road or my feet are mistaken for the person waiting for me.
The road, too, seems like the destination, and I come to believe the person has stopped waiting for me.

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.

Beyond meaning, and the Eternal Beauty breathes through me.
The difference between those who have found no meaning or care for no meaning, and I who go beyond meaning isn't important.
But is apparent in their manifest mindfulness.

How can an understanding raised and developed with words cognize what is beyond words?
How can attention directed from an infantile stage be made aware "beyond direction"?
As the very word 'beyond' gives meaning and direction.

Thought will ever meander in these webs if it is not given a sound as a vehicle to harmoniously dive beyond these intricacies.
Whoever gives you this sound will be in charge of your dive.
My sound is thus spontaneous.
Like scatting with soothing syllables.
A silent mind is defective because thoughts form, which is fine if you want to know your thoughts.
But since thoughts continue to arise, the mind naturally wishes to siphon them off to return to silence.
The siphoning itself creates a mental frequency.
...
"Selling" sounds to think is like moving thought from the ground to flying into outer space.

Any way to teach meditation is obsolete when the mind changes.
The teachings are relative though they speak of spiritual matters.
It is every person's unique journey, meditation is.
Thus, I come back to "just observe".

Looking for meaning is a hindrance in meditation.
It prevents the 'invisible' world of visions from coming and being enjoyed.
When I turn off introspection, the Presence of "Be and it is" or "I am that I am" fills the void.
The be-ing spirit takes very little time in it to fully be fortified by it.
Emmersing further in it is like entering a forest on a dark night without a flashlight.
It starts to form my body into the orb of patience.
Patience then conjures that meaning is next, but it must be overlooked, or 10 days of struggle are due.

The purity must be cast aside to see God equal in all people.
For all are unified in station and wealth in rank before God, none more righteous nor more rich than another.
In this case God enriches all of us in our lack and withholds in our fortune.
For none is self-sufficient without Him.
Purity is more about the strength of desire.
It is easy to remain pure when its fires are not enflamed.
What does purity and righteousness hold?
It can only be detachment from the world.
The "world" meaning that which takes us from our Lord.
Is it right to delight in purity?
It seems so empty in a world with so few single women my age that doesn't have kids nor does drugs.
I actually don't even know one. Really.
I'm pure for myself then only?
To delight in my righteousness to only belittle the feeble?
To stand as a noble eunich with the ****** 40 & 50 somethings?
If I'm pure, I have no home in the dust.
I have no friend to share in purity.
Purity is outward.
How do I perceive reality with outward orientation?
Pure ways become my mantra.
Not just chaste eyes, but a pure body.
I become enslaved to worship my own body.
My outer body has no significance to me.
I smoke cigarettes to fight my eyes from transfixing on it.
I postpone workouts until not my body but my energy is in need of vitality.
I tattoo my skin to break the idol of the body.

As much as the **** female is central to underground society, she comes to me in my bedroom.
Those sources of her pulsate with the richness of her beauty.
How many geniuses have been subverted from thought by her.
How many have plunged into desire's depths, reliant on her picture to allay their suffering.
Without sensuality they derobe as if to go to battle. With her in one hand and their shlong in the other, they make their towel wet.
Now with their desire fed, she looks as a mere distraction.
Just another human body she is now.
Her image has been worshipped and they have found no god.

What is quantifiable are the symbols. What isn't quantifiable are the zones between the symbols, unless there are many symbols present that form spaces.
There are partial symbols, i.e. a gesture of an animal is present but not the form of the animal.
Reality stays more abstract with partial symbology.
What is known about the symbol gives reality meaning.
Speaking of visions as symbols separates the meaning from the visual experience.
The person who doesn't see the symbol as the reality has not been exposed to reality which is somewhat hard to ascertain.
When, in dreams for example, there are just collages of things, it is hard to say that it is more than a collage. But if I recognize symbology, it allows me to see every part of the picture.
Symbols are more for the artist than the scientist who simply wants to verify what happens in reality. While transcendent of verification of meaning is reality "filler", yet it attains to meaning only if it is seen as symbol.
The filler is more abstract because logic only exists here if we consciously give something meaning. Otherwise a huff of a dog, for example, is merely a passing image.
Since concrete objects already have existential meaning, they cannot constitute as filler.
Visions, because they only partially exist, calls into question existence itself.
In filler reality, it becomes participatory as to giving reality meaning or just enjoying the visions.
What separates this filler world from normal mind is that meaning is no longer the key to reality.
Simply experiencing the visuals explain reality in an easy way.
Meaning almost ruins the mode of experience.

I slide my hand down your **** and thigh from behind as you are bent over, and making yourself a toy for me.
I penetrate you *******, in and out as your shelf provides a suction on and off.
Your skin gets hot and flush.
You grab me like your fulfillment depended on it.
My ***** grows so large that it pierces though your heart and lungs and out your mouth.
Can you feel it in your abdomen?
The pulse and push against your intestines?
Rocking your ecatasy up your tummy as you grab at your heart - pounding with your man.
The rush goes up your ahoulders, up your neck, and your head and face come alive with mortal pleasure.
As you take your mouth over my tower, pressing your lips and tongue on its veins and arteries, digesting the salty skin in your mucus.
Pulsing your head back and forth as if you're not drinking enough, as if your mouth had the sensitivity of your ******.
Without ******* you press it into your pus and my head pulses and enlarges pressing the back of your tunnel.
Woman's immortal enemy: my ******, jettisons my *****, mixing with your wet walls, producing a torrent of film.
We both hadn't had enough.

The hologram of the mind is so vast that enlightenment would have to be like a complete update of my operating system.

Esteem of reflection billowing up whenever one puff fades.
Day in, day out.
Pass in, pass out.
Staring off into space, am I getting better at geometry?
Looking into the line of nowhere.
Physical lines may just happen to converge with this.
Darkness may happen to eclipse it.
A point happens to be on it.
A light happens to shine therein.
Lines may also conflict with it.
Colors may not align with it.
Conglomerations may exist there without any congruence.
People happen upon it.
Muscles and nerve endings traverse it.
Needs cross its consciousness.
Predictions cross over it too.
Some ideas are superseded here.
The esteem of reflection scans all areas: physical, emotional, and mental.

The internal image is destroyed, or ground to dust.

Sounds are implanted upon it.
An imaginary self-concept is manifested on it.
The cycle of new crossings re-circulates.
Like this whole poem only affected my knowledge and not reality.

I sit up.

My body is placed on this line.
Like it is on stage acting for this line.
Cleanliness and neatness cross it.
The esteem of reflection takes on the form of part of my body.

I lay back down.

The self-concept reiterates itself.
As if my body's forms must assert themselves.
Afraid to look at bold symbols.
Afraid to act like I touch the things in this room.
A sense of shared humanity is spit out by my head.

I am the weak and selfish one.
Not esteeming another.
Only esteeming me and my reflection.
Not sharing a room.
Like I'm pulling down and in.
With my head in the sand.

I consider knowledge that isn't directly observed as secondary.
And I don't mean observed in a book.

This self-concept becomes the center which organizes the things that cross the line of nowhere.
It is the best comparison to my physical self, yet a figment of my imagination.
It is shaped more by attention than by materiality.

It's funny how anointing is at once a rising over and a descending.
Yet it cannot fully transform my mind.
For even this blessing crosses the line of nowhere.
And the esteem of reflection rises above it.

But when the line of nowhere becomes the self-concept then the mind is fully transformed.
The esteem of reflection would have equality with the self-concept.