So let the world read my mind not as a cold accounting book,of
a ledger process your story of transactions,
of bits and bytes neatly filed. Down thy self dignity
To know more now would only steal the potency that very moment, givzah
The tension held is a clear statement and the deepening silence. Your cowardness voids the
Face to face, to inform me, narrerating
to categorize the contours of thought,
as if it were a map already drawn.
how utterly absurd it seems,to convince these old assurances to find the shape of what I strive to build,
a space where my musings might fulfill a shared, unspoken wish—or prayer
the finding of faith and understanding,
the connection that shall be a relationship between the man above and thy soul to the
Of whom maybe in desperate, tangled need to untwine the knotted
threads of truth or disparity and know he is
Where every minding individual,
each soul that pauses near my current,
becomes a gentle questioning,never,
a necessary friction against this newly gifted way of seeing this strange new light I hold.
Face to face, across the sudden void,and now complies to the utterly absurd position faithfully patient on his time. What is it ,what are you observed for, this purpose of being reason and whose need to untwine the knotted threads of truth.They probe the edges,
testing the boundaries of what is offered,
and in that honest doubt,
the real substance forms.
For the only physics that truly hold sway here,
the only gravity recognize,
are those unseen forces that bind us in the act of leaving,
the slow, deliberate release of one perspective for another.
To know more now would only steal the potency that very moment,
the exquisite tension he held between her clear statement and the deepening silence.
The thought leaps out,
a fragile bird launched into the quiet air,
and lands again,
or maybe it dissolves into the vastness,
again , ever fully captured,
never perfectly held.
And in that space between the speaking and the void that follows,
there lives the terror—
the fear that this articulation,
this reaching out,
is all for naught.
Face to face, across the sudden void,
how utterly absurd it seems,
this desperate, tangled need to untwine the knotted threads of truth.
But tethered fiercely to that fear,
clinging by a thread of stubborn hope,
is the quiet, persistent whisper:
maybe, just maybe,
this endless motion,
this constant, restless searching,
is the purpose itself.
Is
Not the finding,
Breathreasonmeaningpurpose
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