A great deal of weakness
goes into the man I am now
indecision and a flurry of doubts
that make ways cloudy

But it’s fertile ground below,
this lack of surety
this endeavour to truly know

and if more would live here
how much better we would be

In theory reductionsim,
I would say that what is central to contemplation is mystery.

Movement and shout has been given to the world.
Who wants to spend time in stillness and silence?
Me who listens to the reverberation of these frequencies, and observes their form and colors.
Silence listens most to the unheard.
In it my consciousness forms a likeness of myself.
Mine is like that white guy with a buzz cut, who sees truth for himself, and has a wider than thin musculature (medium).
How similar are "we" really to put every white guy with a buzz cut with a medium build who rejects the conformal truth prevalent in this country and time?
Why should they be the sidhas that my mind shows me?
What is their power?
Their eyes show the imperfection of a tattoo.
That inkish black stare.
Those creases on the forehead.
That perplexed point on the brow.
That hair so short as to wonder its color, introducimg itself in the eye brows, the white skull cap, and even the short spotty beard.
The shadows between lights portrays more gray than black and white.
The gray of prison bars, the gray of streets, the gray of rain clouds.
With all the fancy of a toilet bowl.
With all the luxury of a walk.
More a "Beastie Boy" than an "Eminem".
More a Jew than a Christian.
More a Baha'i than a Muslim.
More a Buddhist than a Hindu.
When will shade and utility become beauty?

Esteem of reflection billowing up whenever one puff fades.
Day in, day out.
Pass in, pass out.
Staring off into space, am I getting better at geometry?
Looking into the line of nowhere.
Physical lines may just happen to converge with this.
Darkness may happen to eclipse it.
A point happens to be on it.
A light happens to shine therein.
Lines may also conflict with it.
Colors may not align with it.
Conglomerations may exist there without any congruence.
People happen upon it.
Muscles and nerve endings traverse it.
Needs cross its consciousness.
Predictions cross over it too.
Some ideas are superseded here.
The esteem of reflection scans all areas: physical, emotional, and mental.

The internal image is destroyed, or ground to dust.

Sounds are implanted upon it.
An imaginary self-concept is manifested on it.
The cycle of new crossings re-circulates.
Like this whole poem only affected my knowledge and not reality.

I sit up.

My body is placed on this line.
Like it is on stage acting for this line.
Cleanliness and neatness cross it.
The esteem of reflection takes on the form of part of my body.

I lay back down.

The self-concept reiterates itself.
As if my body's forms must assert themselves.
Afraid to look at bold symbols.
Afraid to act like I touch the things in this room.
A sense of shared humanity is spit out by my head.

I am the weak and selfish one.
Not esteeming another.
Only esteeming me and my reflection.
Not sharing a room.
Like I'm pulling down and in.
With my head in the sand.

I consider knowledge that isn't directly observed as secondary.
And I don't mean observed in a book.

This self-concept becomes the center which organizes the things that cross the line of nowhere.
It is the best comparison to my physical self, yet a figment of my imagination.
It is shaped more by attention than by materiality.

It's funny how anointing is at once a rising over and a descending.
Yet it cannot fully transform my mind.
For even this blessing crosses the line of nowhere.
And the esteem of reflection rises above it.

But when the line of nowhere becomes the self-concept then the mind is fully transformed.
The esteem of reflection would have equality with the self-concept.

without a vision
people are rarely reminiscent,
of what they have been seeking
and fall into a deep torpor
maybe its this slumber
that makes them realize,
all they wanted was right there
in front of their eyes.

there was a girl, brave and bold
carried in her heart, a potful of gold
searching everywhere, knowing nowhere
where she would get her answer.

with such strong desires held in her soul,
a fire ignited in her heart
as she wandered into the dark,
the rustling of a brook, somewhere in the woods
where she would often sit by and ponder
'Is happiness all I seek?
or is it just one of life's very old tricks
and maybe it reeks?'

with such a heavy heart
she walks alone into the woods,
contemplating whether life is something
that she never really understood.

As legs hang on rusty hinges
the strides of doorways
lesser long

wisdom crisps its palms 
up to the hearths of winter
on walks

Older finds joy 
watching little jelly movers
under the snowy leaves 
of autumn's fall

There is freedom 
in holding back;
experiencing exuberance
perched high in cedar
witnessing the now moments
of a uranian world
from a fifth dimensional view

Knowing that Love
sourced from the heart
affects the observed
just as true.