Longing is agony unto sad beauty. Trying to discover a home in self. A fortified castle. We meet people. They look like us. We engender ourselves. We say strange things: “I want to know her sadness.” In a life by multiple worlds, to have crossed paths, such in passing. Affectionate seconds. Meshing vibrations. Cosmic undulations. Such impression, so brief an interaction. Some souls linger. Sudden into cadence. In speaking about hertz, one is awakened, one is concerned, and one is confused. Patience in matter, pragmatic spirituals, indifferent attachments. Having taken immortality for granted—looped by cycles—some moments rising, some reality in falling, knowing it gets deeper. Phantom of brains, an interior opera—if understood, we’d conquer further by endeavor. There’s emptiness to fullness, fullness to emptiness, to borrow an eastern thought. Aside for riddle it speaks to sameness: the fullness of sadness, the emptiness of happiness, as they interchange. Slight shifts in perception; slight motion of activity. Knowing shifts are required if one is to survive the soul in its mirror. It becomes artistry. To have met by numen mathematics, to have learned to believe in experience, a casual undercurrent word. In all the giving, in excellent reception, to adore, realizing the cycle. Ears made for listening. Eyes meant for seeing. Grappling with necessities; appealing to sadness on multiple levels.
