||||||||||||||||||| thought persists
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are we heading somewhere? Does hope exist beyond
our own definition
of it?
is there a nature to nature;
of which we abide?
or create?
(of which we are often unaware that we ask),
in our reactions to such questions
can we be defined by their seemingly forceful persistence?
does not dread carry with you when you've found joy?
do not the unknowns within ourselves reveal who we are, only when we have not
found them?
|
intent is not laid before us (by any hand or motion), but rather a process that
we are... among many others
it is 'known' that i am, for i am
it is 'known' that death is a thing, for it is told and seen
it is unknown what is unknown,
and our knowledge
only as known as we believe it to be
the static is what we hold true,
in an existence that shifts as we do
does not knowledge bend as our beliefs tend?
does not what's known only be, when is seen, (and likewise shown)?
does i, sitting before you
have unseen to us,
what we know is within too?
does disconnect
imply loneliness,
or enforce
it?
does the truth in
and of
contradictions
lead us to a better place?
a better
time?
are these just the hopes
of a person who cannot withstand
what they do not now
know,
but they know is there?
what state is it,
that knows there is unknowns,
and to know it is?
a small likeness
beyond what we are?
lest we see
what we want,
and feel what we feel
to an ends,
no last?
||
thoughts run like a runner at pace.
torn at the ligaments
to give in
to the race.
seeking what is for a state of at peace,
seemingly
found only
in
another?
be all we have is the physical,
in the physical form?
does comfort exist in bodies that are worn?
does history historize only that which will be;
when all that we believe,
with the exception of that we cannot sense,
bleed?
like the innards of a tree, we can move so freely,
to the branches end, which twist back at end,
toward the body extends,
that which we hadn't yet
send?
|||
another we see before us,
pretend,
them,
to be that tree itself.
alive inside, bark and root,
we feel,
we breathe and
it is bereft.
it meets which is
unto itself.
the sky and the land,
and liquid
it tends,
moving inside;
to move
and grow
forth,
the pathways it lends.
and you witness what?
the story to create meaning
for another?
's end?
a means to significance,
compensation for a life
pain,
fear,
joyful revere
we think we are one
(or the other,
or another),
and exist in as such.
thoughts compound the endless
||||
for deception is indeed a truth in its being; as fire can burn, and thoughts
can bring feeling.
be we deceive to know deception,
and fear it,s inherit construct?
be itself
of fear?
...that deception has no end,
and inherently bred with it
something other,
than the incomprehensible
of everyday?
or
do the contradicted faiths
which construct
this deception contraption,
make truth innate?
and also malleable?
we learn to learn more,
in facets that extend.
as we make,
and to deceive unto another, without knowing
(what we previously believed to be the truth of...) our actions:
into
perceptions,
thought,
not far separate from our current conception.
mathematics explains,
our perception remains.
limits set fourth
by genetics or pain.
inconsolable are the ways
in we make the power
of numbers
be our minds only gate
incomprehensible be the actions,
that we continually retain,
by the actions
of others
upon which we've played?
inconsolable are the ways
we know that we had been,
we know still exist,
for we continually persist
inseparable from the emotions and
thought that come to
and of these?
to be comprehended
from the limits we entrance?
a prison, is physical bars and concrete.
is a life no different,
merely denied colors
and fresh
be locked in a mind,
as we seemingly always exist.
freedoms are extensions
|||||
be the darkness of our being, the light of our inner peace?
like the limbs of a tree,
the spiral of history,
be that which we repeat,
or observe; to proceed?
do we seek destruction
for too, seemingly fulfill our need
for progress?
||||||
time passes, as the reading of this text,
as the writing it took to make it so
to make something so, implies (to some)
a product of creation.
can knowledge exist, when we have finished our course of reading?
is there above knowledge?
wisdom? or is this not too, formed from the same of
experience.
as wisdom (itself) can make itself seem it true.
burrowed beneath, moving thusly. to experience (itself) ever so profound.
be virtue an acceptance, of the levels upon which we operate?
of the confluence we can gather,
make,
and produce?
|||||||
strange how pain of a physical nature
carries with it existential dread,
as if showing in more clarity the helplessness
of life's character; and in its healing,
the pleasures and
worrilessness
of life
without.
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