At points, the tiger weeps, filled with strength. The forest is by instinct. Aloneness comes naturally. It’s what the tiger knows. As far reaching as time, anti-gregarious, sunshine watching. By nature of souls, neither abnormal nor unadjusted, those tribal waves speak to connection; to have loved by genetic, to have sewn justice, to have built empires. Akin to animals, evolved from winds, either/or, tides are fluting, sullen soundness. In trying it
ached. In science it churns. Religiosity appeals to spirits. Knowing a passerby, one understands impermanence, otherwise, deserts are filled with tumbleweeds. Said weeds are unvetted, adverse to nothing, the last briers, if destroyed, they return in season—ever a soul intrigued by deserts—fullness of curiosity, how has a soul become a monk, a priest, a nun? What tugs at inner recesses—those dreary corners, satiated by Spirit,
knowledge, eventually, wisdom? By divine rites, leaping hurdles, wrestling fire; a subtle presence of thought, to realize as in motion, where another might notice, pulled by gusts, pushed by souls, rereading ancient literature. To fill up on scriptures; to thirst for sutras; to meditate on gunas. By a breeze to have met—by structure to have climbed—by pains to have surrendered to thoughts; trying to float, awakened as it seems, feeling closed off,
tussling with information—if to settle upon flame. As cordial carnivals, debating harlequins, faced by caricatures, to realize, most of life is alike to cartoons—nothing is graspable. To assert it, most of life is by illusion, no great feat, we’ve listened to this before. In studying what’s understood—we unlock what could be—we journey into possibility, purpose of person, reasons to continue unending growth.
