Now I know
This will be hard to read...
What if reading were illusionary.

Let's see, I am not this body.
This is know for sure.
The mind is not I.
I watch the two, in an
Interaction I can barely touch,
I can only grace, essence slips
Through the cracks of my palm.

The Me, I AM, she, he, WE,
I can see anything.
I can tune into
Information being thought
Over seas and time.
Inventions of time prove this,
Theory not needed for One.

WE are what knowledge creates,
What we see, breath, be.
Our source is infinitely creating a new.
WE create what we desire.

Information  is obtained from within.
And then, this leaves room
To question the true steam
Behind learning to read.
Since anything written is
Merely
A single portion of creation,
Perspectives glance, a chance
For a new view.
Since this is, reading carries
a particular weight.

My child resist,
Resist until it fits.
Resist, revolution will look like
This.
Illiterate is illusion, and yet
Illumined beings they are.
Ones that go within to learn
The steps of their path.
Child, resist. Hold tight, clench
Your fists to protest with the love
of your SELF.
Who WE is. Resist.
You are here to change things,
Over time, evolve within
the cycle of things.
To witness... resist and hold form.
We are free. Nothing can be taught
That is not for all to see.
We are free, literally. Bits of me
Spread in the wind.