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Fully clothed from head to toe,
bare I lie with my own sorrow,
this sadness that has followed me
in aeroplanes across the sea.
I wish to draw honest breaths,
and meet my precious life afresh.
I’ve tried and tried to keep this pain
away from me, to my own gain:
I have sung Luthario’s song,
and found myself loving the wrong;
I’ve allowed distraction to wreak
havoc in both my work and sleep.
I have let entire days
burn away in the fire’s blaze
singing songs of suffering,
ignoring the joy life can bring.
Yet I read pensées written by
Krishnamurti, an Indian guy,
and there’s this special thing he said
one day, and now it’s in my head:
“you are the suff’ring, there is not
separation, you are the thought!”
And now I think I start to see
just what this sentences means to me:
it is absurd to put away
this sadness for another day–
there’s beauty in communion,
in an eternal union
between this guy I think I am
and this pain within my hands.
But if I am the thing itself,
what’s there to do? Can I be helped?
There are answers my mind craves,
yet instead of being enslaved,
I’m going to run with this one:
that there’s nothing I can become
that will get rid of all this hurt
that I’d so like to trade, or worse.
So here I go, please wish me luck
as I enter a living ruck,
and reduce the space between
the real world and my own dreams.
this lake ain't fake
and the trees aren't lying,
but stinking thinking
can make it all seem
like a
          dream.
Inspired by Jiddu Krishnamurti.

— The End —