The object of meditation is to attain a why-less insightful personality.
Like everything is "its own cause".
Life has become disenchanting by the common awareness of my real familiarity with it.
My thinking of "what is the need of this or that" is truly a mark of low intelligence, or a common sign of age.

I found how infrequently some points or lines could align with a hyperplane.
It sounds way harder than it was, probably because I used to not know the succession of steps to learn about R^n and the hyperplane.
They are easy to grasp but it used to not be as easy as 1,2,3.
But it really is a simple plane in n-1 dimensions of R^n.
Yet when I first encountered the word some years ago, it was quite mesmerizing.
I think math will always be mesmerizing except if I've encountered it in pedagogy.
With this understanding, I know that all math is stepwise succession within its branch.
But somehow this leaves things undone, probably because I can't cheat true and tried pedagogy.
That's what I really want to do.

I lay here and stare at the stitching in my new hat made in Bangladesh.
There are few other things I know about this country.
I imagine the sewing machines and brown fingers and faces working to get by.
Some, I imagine, with mopeds.
I imagine the teams of fabric.
The spools of thread.
Sewing on a tag that they may not be able to read.
Amongst the tropic-like weather.
Annual income less than what I make in a month.
That's about what my paper route paid: $600/year.

Not eating, drinking, or smoking for the Will of God.
These mortal morsles seem so significant now - energy to do things.
Dry, sticky mouth.
Slight ache in the belly.
Unfulfilled desire of the lungs.
It seems my reflection is dependent on these and not my soul.
240 million malnurished children.
2% of the world is homeless.
18 million in prisons.
689 million live in extreme poverty.
What can I do, I'm one person?
What can I do, I'm one person?
What can I do, I'm one person?
Give a little more than I spend for me.
Give a little more than I spend for me.
Give a little more than I spend for me.

There's not a poem or a song for this yet.
Loving because love is the only way.
As we dance and move around our hearts,
Your face shows me your part.
A show of respect.
A show of affection.
How do I love someone more like a daughter?
I'm glad we could be around each other.
I don't want you to go out of your way for me.
But when you do, I know that the respect and affection are there for you too.
I don't want into your personal life, unless you want to go out of your way to.
Sometimes there's no way to show you.
Sometimes there's no way to show you,
What my smile is about.
It hides years you don't have.
It hides tears you don't have.
It hides smiles you don't have.
I wish somehow my heart could open this treasure box inside.
It can't happen until you start asking questions.
And I can't show it with wisdom save for maybe once or twice a year.
If it doesn't spark your attention,
Then I'll smile and it'll be alright.

My mind goes for a smoke before my body does.
It becomes a pressure just like holding *** if I don't fulfill the mind's intention.
The heart is silenced and prepared for the intake of nicotine even though I haven't moved from my place.
The social joys, the buzz, and relief of smoking circulate through my mind.
My back tells me it will be comforted by smoking, just like a teenager asking for car keys.
The part of me who doesn't want to smoke is portrayed as an over-worried mother, over protecting this teen.
The male aspect that wants to stop smoking is decided as the empty insurance salesman simply concerned with the money.
In other words he is seen as fake.
Next, the Natives remind me that tobacco is a sacred tradition given by White Buffalo Calf Woman.
"It eases tention," She says.
I think about the people I've influenced to smoke, and how others influenced me too.
I think how much more healthy Chloe looks now that she's quit.
My hip muscles now tell me a smoke will relax them.
I'm reminded of the lack of care of minorities by those who don't smoke.
I'm reminded of smoking comradery.
Of Native society centered on the pipe.

A tattoo of my newfound math problems: R^n.

And with this one distraction, all these thoughts of smoking combine and say: "okay, let's go smoke" as if tugging at my seat.
Yet I tie myself to my seat, I theory anyway.
Smoke or sleep? They try the either or question.
I'm staying up for another 11 minutes.
What will happen?
The friendliness of Nic does it to me again.

Post your poem so I can share my thoughts, she says.
That child that gets to share at show and tell in kindergarten.
I get to talk to everyone about me, that little boy says.
All proud of himself.
Is it a hidden world where I am a star?
When will it be the other kids' turn for show and tell?
When I'm interested, he maintains.
This world is about me when I focus on me, and about them when I focus on them.
Is there a place not to share?
Does this mean I listen to others by not sharing?
Well, it certainly sets the ears to others than myself.