One must break through reality in order to cross over into metaphysic reality. In surmising all night, I fathom something harsh, I haven’t a clue to it all. It’s neither awake nor resting, it’s limbo. The ache has nothing to do with love, it has motivation, but it lacks in love. The sun stands between us; the moon just watches in awe. Something strumming our guitars, an invisible hand, with many sensing, life is there. I’ve a time with getting flustered, befuddled by a world inside of a galaxy, a soft repeat of insistence, to ignore common reality. Someone says: “That’s love.” I defy him to undergo desiring what has slipped into atmosphere, as engulfed by disappearance. Nevertheless, I should, or never should I, as to drift into spaces, more to mourn an uncanny science, something tilling me with a rake. I don’t see it like it sees itself. To fathom duties, work, art, home and politics; pray wilderness to be gentle, pray life to extend a favor. Maybe in bringing life its rhythm, life is rejected, misunderstood. I fret depending upon a wish. I fret the responsibility of remaining excellent. I fret the sunrise missing me. (In not loving the conundrum, in resisting the chasm, internality has intensified. Energy gnaws, gnashes inner teeth, some snare befuddles me.) I was never complete, as to fantasize about wholeness, as it relates to inner peace; the darkness of illumination, benighted as we dance, captured by will power, bereft of completion.
