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The Professor instructed -
we can never know anything
outside of our own minds.

Yes, but...

It's reassuring to know
your love and tenderness
are not figments
of my imagination.

- fr
All matter is fluid
She believed
As she passed effortlessly
Through the concrete -
Then realizing the passage
Was in imagination only
She felt the warm blood pumping
From her skull onto a
Cold factual sidewalk.

- fr
This is not the mentality
     by which we were schooled -
This sense of nothing
     solid about ourselves -
Nothing permanent, nothing stable
     to lovingly cleave to -
That "I" is only a
     transient idea of "I"

- fr
This has nothing to do with the Absolute -
     this idea of God.

In childhood, God was the loving
     Father in the sky -
Outsized, sporting a flowing white beard, and
     ever attentive to my prayers.

Now, God is an abstract notion -
     transcendent and immanent,
Infinite, eternal, and
     difficult to embrace.

But all of this has nothing to do
     with God -
All these continually mutating
     mental constructs.

- fr
Ease into silence
healing reprieve before
life's cacophony

- fr
I said to myself,
   "Someday soon you will
     be dead and gone.
     Your consciousness dissolved.

Myself replied,
   "What does this mean?
     I have no experience
     with which to relate."

"This is true," I acknowledged, "but
     you possess imagination
     and thus may conceive
     of opposites."

"Yes," Myself agreed, "but
     imagination can only construct
     with what has been received.
     To conceive of
     the void of all conception
     is beyond my parameters."

- fr
Simply having some fun with 'philosophic solitaire.'
  Aug 2018 walterrean salley
We were there
Somehow exposed,
So I broke my back to hide
Behind a girl I must now call my friend
Due to the norms.
After words over words
That made no sense to me,
(Most of the days it no longer does)
We sat there pondering,
How each of us ended up there,
Most of us looking for our place.
I wondered how it felt
Like I owned that seat,
But I never do belong.
So she drew a sketch from her memory,
It was her home,
Yet it appeared , I don’t know how
But as simple as a doll house,
How fickle are our lines drawn
They can never justify our memories!
We laughed at her richness,
So she started drawing what we called minimal.
There was a pointed roof
So far beneath the sky,
One bent door
And a tiny little window with no glass,
Maybe we all do wish a world
With no bounds,
But look at us
Chaining ourselves,
Caged in a concrete home.
Over the house she drew these tiny hills,
The sky yet to fill in,
And then the sun,
(I decided it was the time of sunrise),
And across that eye with long eyelashes,
Like the ones they all talk of,
She drew this crooked but fast little black likes,
Curved with a dash beneath,
Three in number
And staring at that I realized
I have never been this dead before.
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