To think, or not to think, that is the question.
Shall we draw from out our thoughts the nature
Of the universe? Or shall we grant the
Pressing flow of life's instinctive drives to
Shape our world? Tis a riddle of some magnitude
More subtle than it seems. Our days pass on
And on from infancy and piece by piece
We do amass a store of knowledge so
Vast it does far surpass the threshold of
Our competence. But nature, or God, or
He or She or it, whom we know not of
Yet love and guess upon, has shaped a place
Beyond our conscious realm which treasures all
That's passed before us. And truly, this vaulted
Depth of being is a source of clear wisdom.
Yet the delicate threads of thought ascending
From this center often twist and turn and
Break upon encounter with the tumult
In our lives, and to purge this loss of knowing
Swells a force within out bodies which informs
Us of the impasse, called emotion. And though
Many are the pleasant ways this power
Blooms among us, so many are the painful
Ways this power gloom's among us.