It's written for us to see it. There’re stark differences. I saw something upon a breeze. And factors must be analyzed: it’s never what we desire it to be; and it’s something of what we think it is. I’d like to serenade the skies, but they might not answer. I’d love to rain down compassion, but understanding everything is hazardous. I see a spirit in me. It might be old, or seeming as such.
Many days heavier than most: clips and visions: internal warfare. It’s not hard to do goodness. I was concerned about that. Nevertheless, and it’s elusive to say it, however, follow one’s soul. This is what others are watching. Something I sense: it can’t be an utter paradox. Nothing makes connection. Not here. A soul pointed that out. On occasion, all pieces are present.
One for those chambers, those remnants, product of scars. Knowing against all evidence—grappling with human appointment, battling to grasp something in an endless room. Many will look for symbols, to rationalize through it all, start with heart-chakra, move to soul-culture, make way to spiritual inrush. Better, start with parents, old lives. On another land, in a distant city, sits
a semi-hermit. She’s analyzing. She’s weighing truths. She’s discussing facts. We met those years, in that dream, fraught by life, wrestling shadows. Ghost of my ghost! Tenor of invisibility. Indeed. Never we mind over details, anomalies, dates and demands. Such was a delicate soul, as a woman dreams, moreover, as a woman envisions—those sighted crowns, Venetian garbs. Or
parts of Egypt, a dearer land, congruent to motion, threshed and thrown, alive and vanishing—the curse of roses, blessing of literature, home to immortality—a troubled soul, a baffled ax, hacking for years, unveiling an ingredient, dusting an artifact, becoming a spirit violin. Those days I witnessed a soul with slight tremors: I’ve seen it in others: I noticed it in self. I keep
arriving at what souls do, as in drilling the nervous system—many magnets, longing for closure, to open an unending saga, fraught by fruits. With casualness seeming important, as following a balloon in a dream, so emphatic, such determination, it must remain casual. I sense the great wall. I sense one galloping further into the city. Science must prevail. I examined some
region in thoughts refusing closure. At points, a soul will come across an interior haunting, alike to a sort of phantom. In having all properties of a given phenomenon, denied emphatically, refusing to uplift. It gives one irritability. It demands to write upon one’s spirit. By reality, it feels like unreality, indicative of mind mysticism. Tender aesthetic, made into something corporeal.
