You are what you are looking for. Just as the gentle ringing of silence in my ears is what I am listening for. When there is nothing left to listen to, when there is nobody else for you to look into… You find it.

It was there that whole time. It is a shadow hidden by other shadows. You are the breeze covered up by the wind. Everything you search for through words is already known by the heart. The woman I search for, or the man that I wait to show, is only another I in which to share this entire new sea of happening wonders with.

You can only see in your mind what your eyes tell you. The same way, you can only began to wake up inside your own mind, no matter what I tell you. The simple you that I address is more than likely just me.

You see?

No, probably not, I sound like a madman.

Think of it like this:

That particular song that takes you back to your high school days? Where you would drive with the wind combing your hair, and the car speakers were blasting and rattling, the seat belt forgotten, the road feeling fresh and new under your tires… All that you had on your mind that day, those high school days, comes to mind when you listen to this song. The you from then is somebody old and almost forgotten. Not even remotely who you are now. Well, isn’t it fascinating to think that the nostalgic feeling that takes your heart away on a blissful waltz through time is experienced only because of who you have become?

You were never nostalgic before, in your high school days, listening to this song. It was just a song. You liked it. But the feeling did not taste the same as the wishful remembrance of that feeling now.

So, everything comes down to the moment you are in. You can set this paper down (I will wait) and come back to it three years later. It will sound different to you then. These words that shape my mind and drive my fingers will play different music to your eyes.

Have they changed then?

Of course not.

You have changed. You are all that there is.

You are these words that you read. You are the inspiration that is keeping me awake right now to write this. You and I are same. You and this soft breeze that carries the sounds of night are but the same. Even the stars and their ancient bodies are what you are. What else could you be? Completely new, yes. Completely fresh, of course. But you share a spirit with the entire universe. You are not outside of this thing called life.

You are life.

And your true moment (when you realize just how even the past is experienced in the everlasting moment) is your soul.

And it’s time for you to be who you are.






The Passerby held a very average face that shined with the utmost monotony. Nobody stopped him for conversation while he walked, foot by foot, down the path of dull suchness. He was the one the angry pulled their anger over, if he were to be in the wrong step at the wrong corner, for he had the sort of timidity that reflected the world her own face. Children looked at him only for a moment, but he was so much in a dim state that awareness never fully drank him in.

Mister Abandon, we like to call him, for there is nothing that he doesn’t delve into with absolute, keen abandon. His greatest quality is the having no qualities about him. He is the blank and expressionless moon, able to perfectly ricochet the white light of a greater deity than the surface of the earth ever could, what with all her beautiful blemishes. Mister Abandon, won’t you tell us your secrets of an open heart?

Never does he use more than one set of utensils in the morning, noontime, or evening, for he does each chore when it arises and never a second out of procrastination. How like a flower Mister Abandon is, opening his petals only when the sun will have them and never a moment more. For this purpose, he only has one bookmark. There is no pile of open books by his bed. And from that, I, certainly, could learn something.

He could never be a writer, for there would be too much to think about. Instead, he would make the perfect human being. That is not to say that he wouldn’t completely succeed in every task he put his heart onto, because he would. To be the creature of intuitive intelligence, Mister Abandon exceeds far from the extent of my pen’s reach. Though he is defined by the constant decongestion of a mere twenty-six English characters, Mister Abandon will forever thrive through the swaying web that I, the spider, has spun.

I would very much like to spend a road’s trip with this man. I feel that having a creature who divides himself into the music and multiplies himself into the scenery would not complain about how much longer we have. He would not think nostalgically back at the beautiful landscapes we left behind, because those are behind us. He would be right where our car is, his awareness not having the audacity to venture before the wheels of the vehicle.


I want somebody.

I want somebody who understands me.

Somebody who looks at me, looks into my eyes, touches my hand because they want to feel closer.

I want somebody who has written in their journals of how much they want somebody like me.

Somebody who I can be intimate with: heart, body, soul…

Somebody to call into the room, all excited, when a particular ray of sunshine hits the blue glass of water so magically.

Somebody who doesn’t see me as a freak. Or as a nobody. Or worse: as a wise old soul.


I know that if I had this somebody (because I’ve this somebody in the past) that I’d want something else. Or to be alone.

I am cursed with want.

Even now, I want to not want.

I get this way every time my life’s dust settles. Because I can see the monopoly of it all. What it means to be human, what it takes to keep warm, how much energy I waste in securing my place in this world. I have to eat to stay alive, and I would need a place to live to stay warm. Well, I need to work to eat and have a place to stay warm. Then, I need to eat and stay warm to work to eat and have a place to stay warm. Furthermore, I need transportation to work to eat to have a place to stay warm, but I need to work to pay for the transportation that gets me to work to eat and have a place to stay warm.


I am so done with how they tell me to live, yet I see no alternative. I am so done with living in general, yet I see that death is just as lonely, just as barbaric, just as beguilingly hopeful as life is. Because death is life. There is no escape from this tenacious cycling of suffering. Buddha, I don’t know what you mean by Nirvana. I do not.

“Desire is the root of all suffering.”

Thanks. You just gave me the desire to stop desire in its tracks. I don’t get how your messages help me.

But, there is something. There is always the voice that pulls me through these hard times. It is feeble and lonely little Hope. He understands me, because Hope has both everybody and nobody. He speaks, but little give him attention nor the gratitude he deserves. The only difference between me and him is that I deserve nothing.

God’s Song

These laments that I mispronounce with fluidity of tongue and pen are the spectrum of color playing tricks with the white light of the page. To me, these misspells are life: you either love what your doing or it becomes a prick under the finger. Sometimes, everything I do seems wrong. Things happen to me that I curse under foggy breath. These are just the days of shadow under the Sun, the sand left from the ebb of the tide. Negativity being wrong or bad is child’s play with words. Negativity is simply the other end. It is not something you should duck from or hide under the tabletop, where illusions are served, in reflex to. It is as natural as the rain.

Before the Sun comes out, you might want for it. Those nights of stagnate sleep make the grog of morning seem to shine in your headspace of anticipation. I eat breakfast while thinking of the day before me. I wonder what I’ll find, today, hidden under some stone unturned. I vow to be the one to find it. When I bend my back and stretch my legs to lift this unturned rock, I find underneath it a simple reminder.

            You are not what you are, but you are what you are not.

            When did poetry climb into the dampness where the insects hide? I swear to you that what you are searching for is already taped to the back of your head. You simply need others to tell you in words what you have had all along.

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