by the measure of a man, his sadness, his pendulum,
his swaying; by his blessings, his condition, much is inevitable. he
will see his fate, wrestle with darkness, subdue his beasts; he will behave
accordingly, or act out, either way, he will feel tugged, moved, certainty
slips his palms. promises seem fulfilling, or idle, or miraculous; decided by a
compass, pledged to adore, moments in time alter a man’s future, his
perception. many will forfeit ideas—as concerning love—many will become
aberrant. it must be studied. most see ripe soil. many see souring fruits. by
the measure of a man, he will become hardened, irritable, he will watch with
alarm inside, what he needs, he will clench. he must undo experience, enter
into newness, without murk suspicions; he must like, love, surrender—at each
horizon. many aren’t aware—of what he carries. many never muse his essence.
most seem to enter life requiring satisfaction. as it stands, as I see it,
humans have certain necessities: security is pivotal, reaching inside is
needed, holding, like losing, is another. by the measure of a man, morose at
times, filled with joy at moments, affected by both status and love. things
seem different for many—happiness is internal—affected by others. in tender
kindness, in seeming esoteria, in passion, in deliberateness. softer music,
dearest motion, loving one another, until getting it together.
