Lounging in the dry warmth of the sun,
overcome by the beauty of the green cliffs
rising above the hypnotic blue water. . . .
I think of Mann's The Magic Mountain,
obsession with the physical
(not, in this case, disease, of course,
but the sensual):
skin glowing in the year-round sun;
falling into one's hand;
air, rich with the smell of flowers. . . .
Wouldn't such pleasure
inevitably dull the mind's keen edge?
Wouldn't Eden's ease
subvert all great endeavor?
Catching every glimpse of beauty that is what holds me steady, Misunderstanding and under estimating the quantum possibilities that these eyes see through time and space I face the endless darkness that can hold any man steady. Dealing in disappointments or is it pointless to call for change, A feeling so strange like being on center stage, The darkness so bright I can see nothing, I can feel nothing, I am numb am I here.
What makes you happy,
what makes you whole,
what fills the cracks in your soul?
Is it music, if so what tune,
a favorite meal or kind of pie,
what movie brings a tear to your eye?
What makes you you, do you know
do you have a favorite place,
what do you wear, denim or lace?
Do like the waters edge,
or do you prefer the mountain snow,
do you even really know?
Do you like a hair color,
Maybe you have a type,
Or do you make your own way, or follow the hype?
When you're in the car
do you drive or do you ride,
What makes you happy, or swell with pride?
If you do not know, take a look inside,
you need to know yourself for true,
it the only way to be actually you.