you are cataphatic
with colleagues, apophatic with strangers, quite powerful in spirit.
I blame occurrences on brains, we might know more to that; presumed, not
evident, not as crucial as is lonely—in some force of the word, in some
comforting loneliness. I don’t believe in what I experience, albeit, I can’t
explain it away; the ousia is susurrous, a whisper, inner houses are
noisy. I rethink about you. I leave you be. you creep back in; woe to a man
that scorns a spirit, woe to his sanity, where he must learn to maneuver. you
have power, skill, reserves—as it fires through interior, strikes with force, I
was a subject of my experiences—a person of concern, a moving animal, quite
sullen, quite quiet. we felt irritation. there are ways to respond. when they
differ, a person is attacked. most sensitive creatures—unaware of depth,
frequency, while knowing certain results; scientific spiritualism, rabid knowhow,
to a degree where most feel secluded, hidden, like monks, hermits, sound, as it
shoots becoming energies. some would silence pontification, not as a bad word,
more so as explaining, to our ability, functions of something oozing from brains?
some are possessed, (all are possessed), where some are awake, as terrified
of entrance, nonetheless, operating by spirit. it seems comforting by
definition when such live internally—until challenged by experience.
you persist. you
waltz. you will not be ignored. you do not forgive. thus, you hold a grudge.
you can’t tolerate interrogation. it happens in life, coming across insistence,
it rides out for decades. my granny told me this. I was suspicious. I know now.
morning creatures,
funny raccoons, a new possum has appeared. crickets are consistent, they serve
as examples, many are not interested. one was disrespectful, insisting on grandiosity,
many play guitar with humans; as faces understood, anything seeming smart, not
necessarily each other, it seeps in though. by silent birds, chirping, at an
awakening, I try to live that way: singing, agreeable, morning is Mozart, Beethoven,
Chopin.
I take issue with
souls. many take issue with color. many more take issue with each other,
despite, noncolor. a certain, albeit, unspoken, hierarchy, an internal hieroglyphic—where
males are insistent, women negotiate, all attack where it becomes venting. I seem
to say we pick our projects—those we are comfortable pelting—where some see
opposites as reason to strike. many will try. it is unavoidable. many will not
submit.
pure resilience,
as it comes to mind, we create a situation, knowing its authenticity, while
writing it up as anomaly.
this has been a
concern.
a diligent person,
a spirit person, is misunderstood. beauty looks differently. aesthetic is
challenged. a steady stream becomes irritation.
the left hand
mustn’t know what its brother is doing. although, they must work in unison.
