Acoustic guitar in a subway station sounds
nice, until it floods with rushing
waters, soon drowned
by the screams of the travelers
who drop their bags-full of life
at the moment. And they start to run
up stairs and toward streets
yet the motions are slow and the scene is silenced.

A girl dressed in blue jeans, ripped slightly, removes her jacket
a luxury of patchwork corduroy ,
a birthday present from her mother, or perhaps it was her mother's long ago. She wears it to remember, to imagine:
what if?
she is young,
yet her wisdom is proven,
and her love makes light in a tunnel so dark.
as a man rests underground
she covers him with a coat of colors
and so softly whispers goodnight.

She runs
and they follow
her light.
She escapes to the city above
where stars fall into the waters that make way to the streets
a dream or a nightmare?
she can not decide,
but she closes her eyes anyways
this way, she may never know.
like September, she falls,
and with the world she turns.

the time i met her
under the bridge
a winter afternoon
Brooklyn
the chill in the air
3:23
i can feel it
like just a few moments ago
i can see it all again
come back
i hope
3:23
the lust
has pulled her away
from the girl i met
and i promised her the world ,
the one she took away
with her
at
3:23

105 people die each minute
according to google
and for the first time
i put it into perspective
and watch the clock for 60 seconds
to just take a moment
a moment to just feel the loss
of people I'll never know

and i breathe
and i cry
and i listen
too

a song that reminds me of a lesson
of letting go
like day and like the time of night
while i do in fact like the dark
for the reason i can hide
with open eyes
to stare at the stars through the ceiling
that keeps me from flying away
in the middle of the night
i stay awake
to take another minute
and smile
because 250 people were born.

as darkness coats the sky
and the sun falls
slowly
sweetly
into the parralel of dreams
he kisses the world goodnight
and so he rests
in serenity
chaos oh so calm
a soundless portrait of perfection

i am awake.

ignited by the sense of adventure
my thoughts wrestle within the depth of my mind
emotions shake my soul
and so I go
out into the world
where the dark becomes my oasis
where i am alive
within the night

but not you.

sleeping through time
for you're unaware of what you're missing
the wonder of the night
you fail to explore
the beauty behind the madness

i am alive.

i count the stars
as i conquer the unthinkable
i dance through blackened streets
and if it starts to rain
i laugh
and i dance in the rain
because the night
is where it all began.

i am the night.

picture you're life-
our life-
you and me together-
we're driving over that bridge--
right there.
(points to the left)
and we roll down all the windows
and im playing my guitar-
so loud---
that the ocean freezes over,
just to hear you sing-
to the music.
because you're voice,,
it tells a story.
the story of us.
the one we'll write.
an original.
sing it loud baby girl,
sing it loud

on a sunday afternoon
a baby girl was born
and so life had begun
for a seldom creature
God's miracle
stepped into a place
where her very presence
would change the world forever

they felt it after 3 years
something was different
a girl
of such immaculate beauty
remained from speaking a word
and so they gave her time
to come into her own

but time passed on
and the girl never spoke a word
no one could figure why
there were doctors
there were tests
there were places
to go
but nothing seemed to awaken the silence

people watched her
as she wrote
in her very own
a book
full of secrets
to an identity
so fragile
not even a fire
nor a flood
could destroy such an image
of perfection
and with this
she held it close


the girl
was truly mesmerizing
strangers stared
and when they attempted to speak to her
a smile was the only answer
for the mystery of awe
seemed to disguise itself '
in the body of an angel

until one day

on a sunday afternoon
a boy was born
and a girl looked down
into her very arms
and whispered quietly into the ear
of her son

"maktub"
she said

I'd like to write a song tonight and i'd love to learn some things before tomorrow. Waking up to the sound of birds who sing in spite of my own silence. However, what it is the birds don't know, out there, in that world beyond the window, is the volumes within this room. I'd like to play the guitar strings in tune with the beat of the instrument within my chest. Such treasure is a song that touches one's own heart. But how is it that mine hurts sometimes without even being touched? I think about the birds out there. It hurts to look into such darkness. Do their hearts contain such multitudes? Who am I kidding? Ridiculousness. Birds do not know the meaning of the word called multitudes. I'll probably never see the same bird twice which amazes me, but then again, I met a woman on the train yesterday and we talked for hours. The world moves and people move. I am moved by the hands of time. And with time, birds fly.

everything
has a soul
like this tree
has a soul
and so it lives
like us
but not at all
for the centric definition
exists in parallel
to an idea of something far greater
and much deeper
where the soul succeeds
that of the outer most impressions
of a human being
for we may look at the tree
and know of its purpose
as its soul
it exists
in this world
where we
however
use our souls to guide us
on a destined path
where purpose is the destination

standing amongst the crowd
so often
so stuck
she dreams of the escape
away
and there she goes
with her roots she runs
alas
from those with which she has yet to grow
hollow in soul
she listens to her mother's song
psithurism  
enchanting in the essence
that fear exists solely in the mind
for the soul can conquer the thought
and so she runs
hear you me
down by the river
she pauses
and she can not hear the song any longer
silence surrounding
she follows the river flow
to the west
she walks now
and there is a sense of warmth
where the skies meet the waters
she rests
within this world of setting suns
idle in simplistic measures
of life
itself

If i can't scuba, then what exactly
has all of this really been about?
she thought.
She masks herself with comfort
diving miles below surface-
level headed,
toward a space.
connecting dots
like thoughts through constellations.
there is no weather
under water. she is weightless
and she experiences
a sudden darkness.
four walls                 there-
an amphitheater
with a singular light that shines upon one
black box
still upon a stage.
And it seems quite apocalyptic in a sense,
where pure isolation can destroy the mind..
with inputs uncontrollable..
beneath the land of living..
where one can breathe without the realization
of seconds passing by
like the slow rotation of the world.
However,
her doctors assured her that the depths and heights she dreams to reach are not approved since science can be restrictive based on rules and regulations.
And the fact of the matter
is:
that she will never dive deep enough nor conquer altitudes
with measures high enough to understand the content
that her subconscious instills within the mind.
Her theory will remain a mystery
among matter floating centered in a still life
painting
like one left out there in the rain
to melt away. to fade. to become so easily destroyed by nature's impression
on Tuesdays that feel significant
for a reason still unknown.

he set the drums on fire
which is what started it all.

the catalyst
for a sound that shook the earth,
so much so
that the the redwoods broke the silence
in a forest full of minds lost
lost among the falling leaves
that catch fire.
drifting toward the coast
to meet the footprints
soon to be washed away
by the force of reflection.
and the fires rage up toward the clouds
which shade the surface from the sun.
day is night and night is day
in a world that fears
live music.
and i dream about the drums so much
that i hide out in the dark room
full of pictures
that reveal moments
sensitive to the real world.

the red lights nearly blinded me
once-
as chemicals filled the atmosphere
and i escaped just in time to
watch it burn
peripherally.
i walked away and never looked back.
to return was to risk my sanity.

and i let the cds burn.
i locked the letters in a shoebox
and buried the box beneath the surface
of my time here. i used to read them too often
never to be read again, only recognized
by my own subconscious.
at a time where music reminds me, still, of an instant.

see, i am dependent on sound and color
of the drums
that distract me from surrounding,
so that i don't surrender
to the fires
that consume
so many souls in which see only red.
to be in this world full of vibrancy and passion,
expressed through the essence of art.
it is a shame to feel it burn.

i saw the drummer live years ago
and i learned how to play myself.

i'll tour on Mars instead.
i read about it yesterday,
and it appears to be red from a distance.

angels
sent from up above
woke her up
took her hand
and asked her what it was she hoped to discover
"turn your magic on"
she said
and so they went
on the adventure of a lifetime

"look at the stars"
the angels whispered to her
"look how they shine for you"
so she looked and reached up
a handful of stars
she lit up the world

and there awoke the sea
nature's own
the hills
they sang to her and so she danced
she loved  it all
the sense of belonging

stuck in reverse
the angels told her
it was time to go
and the tears streamed down her face
"lights will guide you home"
spoke the angels
"put your wings on me"
said the girl
and so they did
and so they went

leaving all of it behind
the girl let go of the stars
darkness now instilled in silence
a head full of dreams
now full of despair

the angels brought her home
to where she belonged
"goodnight"
the angels whispered
and so she slept
and dreamed
of paradise

i confess to you,
my love,
what i have come to see
and truly see
of the world
because with you it's like a dream
a paradise
ecstasy
with you i know it must be true
that the universe met me
when i met you

i confess,
my love,
that i waste half my nights in agony
his arms can not allow me to fall
deep within
and dream
for you are my dream
because my heart longs for you
for your eyes
your lips
hand holding mine
i wish to see the world
with you

i confess,
my love,
that it makes sense
all of it
for you've come for me
so come with me
life for me
love for me
because everything happens for a reason
and my reason is you

Dear California,

i have thought about you
often
restless in my mind
like the waves
upon you're shores
the pacific coast
a pacifist in love
with your sunsets
an image rhapsodic
a canvas of serenity

Dearest California,

i do think about him
always
restless in my mind
like the way we drive
to the beat
of the music
feelings fixated
by the bond between our
souls
and so we look at the stars
reminiscent
a catalyst of eunoia
i pray

My Dearest California,

i give to you
the one
who showed me
the power
of love
for this love he will share with you
and so i ask
to gift yourself to him
for one day soon
you shall see him look at the stars
which light up the darkest
of your lands
a sight i share with you

California,

you must see
here
that he has then discovered
a love
for you
and so
at this very moment
he will begin to dream
of wonders
with you,

His Dearest California.

Green Eyes

I heard him talking loud about the girl, like the song.
On repeat in his mind, now plays in mine.
Consistent like a record broken
playlist shattered like a mirror-rearview.
Thinking back to a time where music
Made her laugh when he sang the words.


Music is a funny thing
How stuck it gets inside
the machinations of the brain.
Sticky lyrics,
Stuck to memories.
Like a cruise down Ocean Drive.
With her, it’s quite a sight to see.
She looks out to the vast enigma with Green Eyes,
Sings Orange County
In their song
That plays again.

Do they truly rest in peace? I wonder…
As i walk upon the lives once lived
now lost beyond this universal understanding
Nothing is truly set in stone
Besides the words in which I read-grave stares surround me-
emptiness
A name-I wonder...
their stories?
Their stories...
of love-of hate-
And there I look
Below me
Are the words in which i seek to read for myself
A box of emptiness yet full
Of notes
Dirtied by sublime-
From the underground

He speaks
To us-

a faded blue
when the sun sets
west over
there by the bridge in the back
round of the photograph
i framed long ago
burned in a fire
of rage and fury
ash -
like dust in the wind-
and the blue does fade into black
to only prove that darkness will return again

i count the stars above me now
in the midst of silence
my thoughts are countless
drowning out the washing in of waves
and there i close my eyes beside the beach
i photographed
a moment when the summer wind did blow
the calm onto the shores
where chaos had no chance
because of my serenity
oh what a time

and so my memory does fade
like the blues
where day does turn to night
i fear the dark
for i have yet to dream
of that perfect blue
i photographed with you-
a sky that i could only pray
to dream about
and fall.
...
asleep

i fade away

while my guitar gently weeps

i listen in regret.
as she lays silent  
underneath the bed frame of my childhood. there are
memories packed into the pastel yellow duvet
that i clutched to comfort my fear
of letting go
of figures in the past time.

i never learned to play her
and the shame overcomes me when
acoustics touch my heartstrings tenderly. i grieve for
her life for it has been so isolated.
she is simply "what could have been"
an awakening that has yet to rise
and escape into masterpieces

i long for her while i never truly knew her
at all
her infinite potential to create such
flawless forms of storytelling

i long for the forgone companionship  
encompassed so deeply
though for now she rests still
beside scrapbooks crowded into
spaces without room to breathe
or purpose to see the light
of the morning

I like those little rainbows on the pavement-
a prelude of some kind.
and its vibrance moves in its own way.

and I like to listen to dreams on repeat.
to focus on each verse
individually.
because I can almost hear the thunder
like the echo of the drum.

and it rains in my dreams because I
find comfort in the chaos.

to feel the sun at the same time
is something that I like-
to coexist
is a beautiful happening,
like a rainbow-
which I do not see as often as I would like-
even those little ones that I may walk upon.

and I like the poem
"nothing gold can stay"
because I like to believe in simple treasures

and to dream that there is magic
in this life
where someone
sees a rainbow every day.

before the beginning
were the thinkers,
the thoughts,
the ideas,
the great imaginations.
before the beginning of time,
life as we know it,
the story of our being,
came the authors of the world.
who may the be?
for centuries upon centuries people have discovered the ideas,
words that have been granted the representation of existence,
the gospels of our truth.
however, fooled we must be, as the authors of our world remain a fraction of an individual imagination.
history and fate only share such in common,
and so the authors of our world have intended all of this
as we live our lives, the ones we have been gifted by them,
the authors,
and so they say "Maktub",
it is written.

i met her in the spring
the feeling of
home sweet home
like the sweetest smile
for which she revealed
for me
i felt
with my mistress
no longer lost
but found
like a peaceful dream
she led me on a road
to somewhere
but assured me, yes in fact she did,
that it would lead me back to her
so i walked on
with Georgia on my mind

There is something to be said for those who
fail to fall asleep at night, and
practice patience to welcome mourning.

Here is where restless waters seem to silence.
Where shadows are cast by the sliver of the crescent moon. She is the
Tide's Matriarch who controls transcending vessels
Where friends and fathers float.
"Did you Hear that?"
A sudden splash- a glimpse of purpose for the patience and-
"There it is again."
He senses a whisper over his shoulder when the ship propels him forward with urgency. He stumbles until he falls back onto his feet.
He smiles, wiping away wave remnants from his cheek, and
baits another hook.

He looks around and casts in the right direction only to be pulled towards the left, so he leaves with everything
and nothing all at once.
He closes his eyes and sees faintly in the distance, two fishermen with Their muddied boots and caps pulled backwards. They laugh. They cry. "There" he whispers.

They're waiting and wishing while grasping tightly to the magic of
perfect timing.

Where if you let go, you'll surely miss the moments for
Forever memories.

the moon watched the sun rise every morning
for all he wishes
is for a moment
to be so close to her
as to sense her very self
for as selfless as the moon
the sun shines for them
lighting up a world so selfish
he watches the sun so close
yet so far away
and wonders what shall happen if he moves
among the stars
and into the path of light
a beaming oh so fond of
such a miracle
and so she sees him nearing
and stops to think
that this is it
for love is but a verb
for irresistible
it becomes
between one and another
for the story ends
where love begins
for the moon and sun
one love
forever

gravity brings me back
to you
to us
to the day
i decided it was you who i would fall for
and so i did
yet how far can i fall
until i land
awaken from this existent dream
of what i hope for it to be
the one thing i know for sure
is that gravity
can not be challenged
it can not be over ruled
dragging me down from
reality
i know for sure
it truly
brings me back to you

the woke up in a world
fixated within each other's eyes
soul full tears
falling-each one to the earth
at an instant-sprirts emerging from the core
became an orphic jungle
and so they spoke imagination
became a single leaf-leaves of life
upon the trees
most soulfully speaking-hymns
and so they walked the path-creation

My pocket Bible holds my window open,
For the mechanics of this hole in the wall do fail.
This hole in the wall.
...can a hole be square?
For corners sharp like a sliver of Manchego, and
You rip the skin from the tip of your ring finger there, and
Blood drips to trickle to stain the hole there in the wall, and
I wedge my pocket bible to create a centimeter of space, so
I can breathe
Now, and
I can think now
About the homily i heard last Sunday.
Love is patient, love is kind.
The fresh air is a blessing.
Crisp pages full of spirits.
What is a pocket Bible's destiny?
Or shall I write it on my own?

silence is such a sound
in a place where thoughts make music
time stops
measured solely by the skips
the heart knows it all to well

first song.
ocean drive
as the waves echo within the night
call witness on the stars
because they know it all to well

silence.

next song.

the beat collides with the waves
and so becomes a melody
rhapsodic in the tides
escaping shores
unsure of where my thoughts have drifted to
where next?
i fear the silence
until
i forget about the sound
and remember the music

it's just another interlude.

next song.

the song is over
and i think within the silence
what would the world be without music...

silence
becomes too loud
with the absence of a melody
so let's make it ourselves
play the world a song
of yourself
for within the silent man
exists a genius mind
pure in passion
he plays
to break the silence
to mend the world

so we sing in chorus
"we are the world"
and so we are

who needs angels anyway?

she asks aloud for all to hear
but no one
for she alone drifts amidst the waves
shipwrecked
tears roll into the waters
where her feelings drown
a sunken heart

i could use another cigarette

she says
reaching out her hand to grasp the
addiction
that haunts her when she sleeps
open eyes she looks above
as she floats
now among the starry night
tar beach dreams
a tortured heart beats
and she reaches out again
now grasped by the man
in the moon
once a believer but not now
no

not me

she speaks
to the angels
and wonders where they were
before she lost her faith

and the angels sing to her
the blues

and she finds herself again

And if i could write one letter
to be, if that, my last,
the beginning would be simple, yet,
To You,
complex.

If my memories could play,
for us,
for the whole of the world
to watch,
you'd maybe see,
like crystal; clear,
so fragile and so rare.
So beautiful
as to hold within the palm of my hand,
your hand
in mine
i hold the pen that write's the words
i've been meaning to say,
so i speak through these machinations.
And here is the disclaimer:
i may confuse my memories with my dreams.

Today it rained,
and i saw us from a distance
in my dreams.

Love, Me

“Every time something bad happened, I would turn to poetry — it would give me calm,” said the poet, Sajid Bahar, 26, who lives in the city of Khost. “It’s been seven months that I can’t write. It no longer gives me calm. When I sit down to focus on one incident for a poem, 30 others flash through my head. My words do not have the strength for all of them.”

united we stand divided we fall

as he did in Afghanistan,

instead, leaves fall here
where the sun shines upon
the faces
of pennies
left there upon the ground
with these leaves -
like footsteps.
stained.

the wind
with words she carries
"i love yous" and "goodbyes"
it rains
but the earth does not shake
trees fall
lightning strikes
but the ground does not seem to move
when he falls
in Afghanistan,

there is silence
there is noise
there is beauty and
there is madness.

to rest in peace
is to be whole
with a heart that beats within the world
among the people

“In a different country, at least I can go up a mountain, sit by the water. At least my mind will be at ease.”

-The New York Times

I never hear music in my dreams.

Maybe I do, and I simply don't remember.

Awoken by the storm and sound of music
I felt instantly numb
to reality.
I fell asleep to 3 doors down.
I woke up to chasing cars,
and then in silence I returned.


I saw myself 10 years from now:
Parallel,
from a little blue mailbox across the street.

I stand in a city full of life
while a woman in a candy apple rain coat walks past.
She was talking of a movie that is now on broadway...
To a friend? Talking to herself?
I moved on. Across the street I watch. I wait. I wonder
what will happen next.
I sense a bigger picture. The frame is expanding.

Traffic fills the streets and I see her pacing back and forth.
She runs.
I move faster now with the fear of losing her. I follow,
and I guess so does the rain.

Taxis stop and go and there are noises everywhere.
The rush of the rain shocks a crowd with motion,
and they step with purpose.
I see lights now sprinting blindly through the streets
behind a girl
short of time.

Grasping the golden handle of a door
that nearly closed before me,
She entered
and
I enter
just in time for the beginning.
Red curtains open.
And there it was.

My movie come to life.
Or was it hers?

listen close my love,
before i fall asleep

here, tonight,
in the comfort of your arms,
you should know

i can't go back
to how i used to be
an innocence of love
of truth
deeper than i could imagine
a miraculous world
that only our ardor could comprehend

so i ask you this,
here, tonight
please don't break my heart
for only you could ever fix it.

until next time,
goodnight my love

i drove 154 miles this week.
It's April and the rain seems to be depicting my sensations.
i think it to be crazy to feel so alone in a world full of people.
Billions.
Maybe I am crazy.

I may have met them all, but I have known no one
except for the conscience of myself
a friendly foe.
because the truth is:
we are prisoners of our own minds.

and i am locked behind bars in the mindset of my own
attempting to escape the walls
i reach through into the reality and grasp the key
between my fingers
cold
i have the power
in my fingers i hold it to tightly
only to loosen the grip and let it go

they fall to the floor
i fall to the floor

A single person rarely asks me how my day is going,
for the image of which the strangers look is far too peculiar
weird
strange
and simply not worth the waste of breath.
A human being may take around 25,000 breaths per day
without even a slight consideration in the energy inside
and instead the energy around them
kinetic in communication
yet abstracted in my own perception
through the rearview
of the car
of which I drive
the miles
154 this very week
the infamous streets of the city
so sullen
yet so brilliant
illuminated

so i drive
and do not speak a word
besides "hello" in the beginning
and "have a nice day"
in the end
because these people I shall never meet again
a nice day
one with laughter I hope
so much for these people

and I hope that they will see the world
and learn so much about so much
about themselves
like I have
and have not

the wisest man i met was on the subway
around 4 am
i took this time for myself
and took a trip to the underworld
because sometimes the world's most incredible treasures and truths are the ones we can't see
intangible

like a song
so many yet to discover
to create
let me tell you about my favorite

I started gauging my drives in the number of songs rather than the number of miles

Some say that falling in love can have similar neurological effects to that of *******. This “drug” does not only affect the depths of the heart’s desire, but the complexity of the mind as well. Love is more than just a feeling, and so when the feeling does exist, it  becomes a power, and this power can overcome almost anything. Love though, may not always lead to a happy ending; in fact, its power may lead one unto the path of heartache. Mahatma Gandhi once said, “Love is the strongest force the world possesses and yet it is the humblest imaginable.”

imagine all the people-
dreamers and believers-
encompassed by the power-
not of one, but all...
for those who fall fast asleep
lay lost in mind-over
                  matter
...failing time after time
                                                    to see
the happening-
heartache                                    and
horror in a world of us         to dream
such beautiful sights
where the hands
can hold the power-not
to ****
but to hold-another
hand-
to unite-to conquer
the series of the minds
at lost
for at last
the lives that matter-
all-people-
believers
must instill the hope
that dreamers
have the power
to create.
Believe in the power of dreams.
Open Your Eyes To A New World For The People.

i look to you
in times of struggle
of weakness
and despair
i loved you then
i love you now
i'll love you when and where

there comes a point of heartache
when everything seems right
it happens for a reason
even if its not in sight

the future is a mystery
and of this i've learned from you
for the years behind and those to come
it is you who i turn to

my journey
(the one i hope will lead to you)
began such sixteen years ago and so
it is today
in which i found it to be true

i shall navigate uncharted seas
cross deserts old and new
of all the places i will go
will be from where i write to you


around the world
in search of all your lessons
your stories and your truths
all of which i've read
180 pages
of words i write to you

if  nothing is impossible
it is you who i turn to
wherever my heart is
will be where i find my treasure
and so i write to you

Poetic justice
He put it in a song
And so he wrote the words
Created visionary substance
in an apothecary instance
Where the world went numb
And all life had failed to believe
The fact of the flowers
For the light had hid in shadow
Until the song came on
And justice had begun

-k.m

i found myself on Mars

after i thought i lost my mind in Salta

until time told me
i rather lost myself in my mind
the language of my Atlas
too hard to read
especially in the still of the night
i sit so still
still so alive we are
we lay, lying among a graveyard of stars
and i open up to a map full of madness
black and white in a world full of color
where these red sands of Salta
make me think of Mars

i found this one barely breathing
on a Tuesday afternoon buried beneath the sands
of time . speaking of time,
a couple light years away
i'd find the book i lost again
stained by the sands
of Mars.

i almost lost my mind in Salta

then
i found myself on Mars.

to note:
This Atlas has no copyright, so I have been cautious with my beliefs in regards to map accuracy. If I shall lose this book once more, for public knowledge, the one who finds it must know that there is the risk of getting lost. Do not fear the maps. You may come across unknown paths. Keep going. Find yourself.

Tomorrow.
A possibility disguised as a simple guarantee.
There is nothing promised for the future
For the next moment is a mystery
And so we are so focussed
About who it is we want to be
Tomorrow
Instead of who we are
Today.


Seven
Days it took to create such a world
Enigmatic
Yet written step by step in clear pronunciation
Wonders
And so there are so wonderful
However
I have discovered wonders of my own
My own world
I have created
And so to you i say


Create yourself
Fearless of the night
Embrace the silence of the stars
Become one with one
However
Connect your piece of mind
With another
A stranger
Shakes the hand for peace
Becomes a friend
Brings adventure
Enlightens the depths within the soul


Love is but a verb
So use it as a noun
Question it
With caution
For it’s fragile
Keep it safe


Wake up the sun before it wakes you first
Time is of the essence
So they say
And one moment you may realize
That time too must transcend
But the mystery exists
So ignore the realization
Of where and when tomorrow
And live for here and now


Live for you today.




Wise people speak wise words.
Your words are your message.
Here is a message for you.


The Dalai Lama, when asked what surprised him most about humanity, answered


"Man.... Because he sacrifices his health in order to make money.
Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health.
And then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present;
the result being that he does not live in the present or the future;
he lives as if he is never going to die,
and then dies having never really lived."


Live today.