I can't read

I can't read because my head is swarming with ideas. I can't put anymore in there; I'm constipated with thought amd with each word read I feel evermore urgency to write it out

I can't write.

I can't write because my mind is not at ease. I'm desparate for an evolved philosophy. I have the type of philosophies that offer ease, but not happiness. The type that help you weather the storm but are nowhere to be found in the deepest blue skies or the most firm blade of grass.

My head is pounding

And i thought laying in a dark room would help. But I have to turn the light on to cure this headache.

Questioning myself

I remember sitting at my computer with my eyes open but shut off.  I thought to myself once all this learning is done I'll finally be smart enough to say what's on my mind.  I'll have something to talk about.  I'll have something to write about.  I can't wait til the homework is finished because then I get to do what I want to do.  That's what life is like - you do your homework, and then after you do what you want to do.  And the best part is when you do it that way, in that order, chances are you'll be able to better appreciate what you're doing.  Practice makes perfect.  There's an art and science to everything, so you better get good at your arts and sciences first.

One day, I made a choice.  I did something I wasn't too sure about.  I did something that doesn't get me anywhere.  I paid money, my father's and my own together, and took a course that has nothing to do with anything, and found out that it has everything to do with everything.  It was the one moment in the last year that could have gone either way that wasn't smothered in purpose - sublimely coincidental that it was a course in existentialism.  It could have gone either way, but it only would have gone one of two ways.  It was have meant nothing, or it would have redefined me for likely the rest of my life.

And yet, a nut wrapped enough chocolate is no longer a nut wrapped it chocolate, it becomes a ball of chocolate with a nut in the center. I am shrouded in purpose.  The last decade has been intensely purposeful. - get here, get there, get further.  So much purpose covering this nut, he's lost claim to the identity of his free existence.  The greatest danger, existing purposefully for no purpose.  The second greatest danger, existing aimlessly for a purpose.  Danger still in the other two alternatives, but at least there is a happy resting bed for those patients.

So what.  For what?  What is my message?

God queries each of us.  He doesn't wait until you die to ask you; the blessed of us realize that he's asking us here on earth.  There standing on a dusty road with the entire village in earshot God poses his question.  The question is simple, which is why it is so hard to answer.  He asks you, "What would you like to say?"  When you begin to answer that, that is when you realize how much freedom you truly have; and with either joy or despair you will look back on your life and realize how much freedom you have always had.  When he asks I simply want to have an answer for him, he's much to busy and kind to bother forcing me. I'm self-inspired to have an answer, which is why I continue to question myself.  The best answers come from the questions you've already asked yourself.

Start to finish

Lost
Without you
Found

One two, three
One, two three
One two three

You
us
me.

Dentist Office

We jump to meditation
off a cliff
and land on our hard selves

Wondering why it hurts
wonder why
it's hard each time

They tell us to
keep trying
the plunge into meditation

Break through
our hardened defenses
and land on a meditation

Knowing full well
Our hardened selves
Will shatter

Knowing full well
Meditation isn't hard
It's soft, like water

Meditation is still waters
after all
as we know deep inside

Still waters accept
only the polite
those who will ease in to it

And make victims of
those poor souls
jumping from hightowers

Egg Shells

I hope the visions become stronger.

Today I ate a soft boiled egg.  It's not as easy as I remembered to make a soft boiled egg.  The timing has to be a precise - hard boiled eggs have a pretty wide margin of error, omelettes more or less give you visual cues as to when to to flipped, scrambled eggs (though a continued favourite) are a lasting testament of my laziness, but soft boiled eggs are not easy.  And then de-shelling them is a task - too much pressure and you'll have goop all over your counter, not enough pressure and you'll be eating a meal gone cold.  If you don't care about plating you can just crack it in half and let the yolk fall our but then you have to scoop out the meaty whites with a spoon which can engender shell consumption.  Soft boiled eggs on the face of things is probably the most mundane uninteresting topic to delve into, it's a stretch even calling it a topic, but somewhere within those unfertilized ovals lay today's lesson.

It's not over once you've cracked through the shell.

I'm thankful for having people in my life who have touched me - people whom I have never met but who have touched me with their words, and people who have entered my life and touched me without the use of any. Each, all, of them have cracked away at the shell of existence that encapsulates my days.  Every day I am stuck in reality, I see what is shown to me and thrive to better understand what hasn't.  I already know there is more - I feel it in every breath.  Each time I am touched by a loved one I catch a glimmer of the reality that holds all truth in this glimmer and feel the undying urge to describe it, but often I am shrouded by the demands of reality - breathing and such.  But I can't rely on loved ones to continue cracking the shell for me, truth is soft boiled and it demands precision and hard work.  I have to do my own digging, I have to dedicate the time and put in the effort to disrobe myself of reality completely.  And I need to do it soon before the truth gets cold and tasteless.  It's ripe with potential now, filled with wonder, and I must seize it.  I spent so much time thanking the people who have given me the glimmers of truth that I have neglected the quest for the whole truth.  I guess this is a final thank you.

They open doors but dare not enter.  Close the door behind you so nobody need fear.

Interstate 90

We are in charge
But who among us
Have any ideas
Has any idea
Of the importance

Tomorrow could be
When progress ends
Where the road stops
When the kids play
But nobody works

Today we are tasked
With moving
Your sons and my daughters
Out of this place
Finally a new home

But who knows
Where this new land is
How far away it is
How close it is
From our grasp, to our hearts

I have been told
By Him I think
And at the least hope
That I am in charge
I am a happy retired child.