A cognitive shift
Seeing the reality.
A state of awe
With transcendent quality.

When hit by the truth -
An overwhelming emotion.
Appreciation of beauty,
Increased sense of connection.

Shift in self-concept,
It could be transformative.
Sense of fragility
From a different perspective.

I sat on the edge of the bed.
You smiled.
I am your daughter,
But words mean to you
Something else.

I took your hand,
Telling you I haven’t slept for a year.
I write reflections,
Tame the voices behind my left ear,
Assemble thoughts about the darkness.

I pour a warm, salty liquid
That burns the skin – it doesn’t moisturize.
It helps me,
This pseudo-therapy.
I hide behind my nickname,
So that no one holds me accountable
For what I’m supposed to be.

You also sat up at night,
You read books.
You carried hidden sadness,
I stick a smile on my lips.

I hug people who carry Egregores.
You and I,
we are not afraid of the night.
Your hand is cold.
You smile,
You put together syllables into strange words.

You know that I matter to you.
I pretend to understand
What you wanted to say.

In a moment, it will get hard.
You’ll start screaming like a little boy,
Or again you’ll wait
Until this state of life passes you.

Life?
It’s a kind of space
Where people, because of fear
Bite and scratch
Like frightened, rabid dogs –
And then soothe it
With controlled tenderness.

I sit with you on the edge of the couch
And I think:
We write with the left hand.
We are beings of the night.
Our path was shared –
In fear, to protect a small piece of “I”.

I fear I’ll lose language.
I desperately defend myself against silence.
I dream of non-human languages.
I write words as if I wanted
To cast spells on reality –
Still, it’s not enough.
The anesthesia stopped working.

One day, this will be the end,
Yet as long as I live,
I’ll be the naive one.
That’s what I want.

I choose sweet, sugar-coated hope,
With pink sprinkles,
Telling myself that he, she
Didn’t mean to trample –
Only life pushed them
Into that dark corridor.

My hope
Is not a soft blanket,
This is a heavy, tight helmet.

The dampness
of the rainy season
        is soaking into
My bones
And
Into my being

With a week to live
how would you live it?

Sulk?
Celebrate?
Would it be different?

Would you reminisce
on your livelier days?

Or love
in the last of them
every which way?

Three blind men touched an elephant one day,
Each judged the animal in their own way.
One felt the leg and boldly cried,
“A rough, strong tree trunk, broad and wide!”

Another touched the tusk and cried,
“So smooth and sharp from every side!”
The third held the tail and gave a sigh,
“It’s thin and hairy, like rope swinging by.”

All three were right, yet all were blind,
None saw the whole with an open mind.
They argued loud, in anger and might...
Each defending only their slice of sight.

Isn’t it just like the world today?
Where people fight over what they pray?
Different names, but lessons the same,
Still we battle, Come on it's 2025!!
What a shame!!

I'll be dying soon.
Follow me in love.
You are made of love,
Follow me. We all are
made of love. Be one
with God. Become one
with God--no form, no
beginning, no end. God
is love, follow me in love.
Only enlightenment is all you'll know.
I'll be dying soon. We all will be
dying soon. Become one with
God. Become love infinitely.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

I’m wondering about the state of my life
It seems as dull as an old pocket knife
No satisfaction in the work I do
No colors but grey and blue

I’m older now and maybe wiser somehow
Seen a lot of time go by up to now
Looking back, it was all so quick
Got a few memories that seem to stick

I remember love, I remember pain
I remember playing out in the rain
I remember people, time and places
I don’t remember names when I see their faces

How much older does one have to be
To understand the things, you need to see
Does age give you rights to win in a fight
Does it let you be the one to see the light

Now it seems that time goes by slow
And it moves based on what you know
Experience can teach you later on
It comes after the lesson is known

I don’t get too excited any more
There’s no mystery behind every door
Been there, done that and moved on
Seen everything I’ve been shown

Looks like old age is for looking back
Wishing for another crack
Wouldn’t do it all over again
Unless it came out the same in the end

So, I’m growing old just for fun
I got wrinkles from too much sun
Can’t say that it’s said and done
Any day just might be the one

There the highs are,
then come the lows
this great flow
of mystery
that nature
has granted

it's part of the game,
some ancient pattern
that only few
master

this is a glance
of the Way,
an essence
of poles,
where all
is one
yet
there exist
opposites

the center,
of everything
go there,
and find
balance

Uncovered consciousness,
truth from time stories stones tell,

great madnesses, raging troops of boys,
whose fathers wandered off

vacat

we wait, we wet the thirsty clay
we wait, we let it dry and become scripture.

Every day, I open my reality:
I wake up.
I feel.
I choose.
I decide—
knowing so many others
are crying behind the scenes,
and their trembling is raw.

Pain isn’t consolation—
it reinforces the structure of fragility
when the towers are crumbling.

At the core, we return,
squeezing black-and-white struggles
into our veins, into our memories.

To the only home
we never left
our own body.
The first and the last.