Dear Wisdom,
I know to focus on one. I hope she’s well. She seems disgruntled when I muse upon intuition. Again, to have career and family. I recall a feeling, late into morning, where she was bemoaning her lot. I wonder if we all do this. Not to trivialize it—but we may be inclined, by genetic spawn, to find discontent with our stations; but she was crying in spirit, it reached through spheres, such a delicate tap, a shiver, a name. I responded, unaware of the person, moving into the person, suspicious of names. One asks, how to know? —it becomes superconsciousness, to imbue a person with being. I still do not know. I venture on wing, I refocus on prayer—sensing in passing days—some connection in light, such looming sunrise, aside a warming tent, a place at a table, to have understood—it was a moment, heavy in its departure. To gaze into a mirror, to see beyond appearance, to move through horizon, to capture cosmos, to soar into one’s eyes. I know to ponder upon one, undivided, beyond schism. If ever a moment, to know what I don’t know, reach with a delicate tap, an ancient craft, a feeling by wings. In a thought, upon a glacier, to indulge a rapping, such courage, such pride, with so much not reaching the stars. To have discussed life—sullen invisibility, deep grace, spatial affectation.
