Admit

To admit a mistake

to display one's shame

for the world to see

exposes the wound in the membrane

between self and not self.

It evidences that self

is damaged, incomplete.

Thus it exposes

that self is imperfect.

It shows where it is

vulnerable to attack

it shows its associates

that it mingles with the rejected

and provides a sound reason

for them to detach from him,

to leave him.

Fear deters self

from sharing his shame

for a broken self

is not clearly defined

and an unclear identity

must tread uncertainty,

that which is not reliable

that which is not known,

and which society

prefers to avoid.

Because self avoids rejection,

self hides its shame.

Threat

at times I see care being offered

and the recipient believes it a threat

eager to repel it

eager to avoid it

I wonder why

in the first plane, care is sticky

or seems so, at least.

a widespread expectation exists

that if a person gives care to another

then care must be given back

that if that first arm of care crosses over

a bond is created, and can never really be undone.

sticky care.

thus we allow ourselves to help each other

only via transactions

where help is mutually given,

and contractually known to be equal,

thus clean to cut away.

also when care is offered

I can feel it as a threat

because the other wants something from me

and the offered care is not genuine

but as a bait to catch my own care

the pull of expectation is often heavier

than the lure of a thin mask of care

and I prefer to form no sticky bonds

with those that hide.

in particular, the care that a man

offers a woman

and sometimes viceversa as well,

why is it so often rebuked?

unwanted? disdained?

tis because the care comes not alone

it comes hiding the expectation

that they will receive care as well.

and history, collective and individual,

reminds us that these tainted offers

carry such hidden motives

because not long after the offer,

the offerer comes to demand

what he believes is due him

even though the debt was never stated.

"let me love you, deeply and fully,

because then you will love me too".

the second line is that unspoken motive

that causes the deep fear and disdain

because even in silence, it is presumed,

and so even when truly absent, it is presumed,

and it becomes difficult

to express untransactional affection,

the purer sort.

Shy

the benefit of self-deprecation

of the shy word, of the half-hearted attempt,

of the avoidant procrastination

unconscious as it may be

is that it avoids the stark contrast

between the radiant hope, valiant action of the full-hearted

and failure

plain and true.

this abrupt contrast, when one finds it,

can hurt the part of self

that believes one is worthy

like aspiring to fly

and falling flat from high above.

it can hurt

dearly

thus we sometimes learn to avoid

the high attempts and grand ideals

and to pretend they are false

by labelling the high-minded as snobbish

the lofty as pretentious

the hopeful as deluded

the idealistic as fanatical

heedless of our own accuracy.

yes, we can choose to merely step and crawl

in this hurdle-littered world

or to stay snugly still,

instead of risking

the great and the bold and the sharp,

the leap and the flight and the flow.

it's just worth remembering the potential

that the world offers

is a whole lot more.

Territory

the unit, impelled by life

desires to grow and thrive.

to grow, the unit must explore

what is beyond what it contains (embodies or knows)

and seek to bring that into itself.

how to grow body? it gathers and absorbs mass.

how to grow awareness? it gathers and absorbs perception.

how to grow wealth? it gathers and absorbs goods.

how to grow land? it gathers and absorbs land.

thus the unit reaches out and gathers

what it believes best for itself

to grow in scope and size

early on, it realizes world

is not mere passive mass

and goods to be acquired

it has other units too

and if the unit pushes harder to acquire

it will find harder pressure that comes back

from its surrounding Voronoi cells

who can either shrink or push back

but while alive, will not forget to push back.

the conflict is at an impasse

of victors and victims alone

until knowledge is apprehended

of the essential

that both units are of the same essence

of the same core

that my specialness of self is not unique

and that pushing against the other

is not unlike pushing onto my reflection

and expecting or hoping to win.

while greed persists, the urge to envelop and consume persists.

while pride persists, the urge to remain complete and unchanged by others persists.

while anger persists, the urge to change the other persists.

these three veil the seer from seeing

a constructiver alternative:

to share.

coherence

the desire, the thought, the dream

the idea, the fear, the unseen

are sometimes considered invalid

unworthy to share, or to tackle

by mind

because they are subtle

because they are unprovable

because they offer no evidence

beyond sincere word.

and so they are sometimes dismissed,

discarded, presumed unimportant

because just as arbitrarily the wisps of the subtle shaped the desire,

one presumes, will the desire eventually unravel itself by chance.

and maybe it will

eventually

but experience belies that these subtleties

are coherent entities

that survive and remain for long times

within my conscious self.

if I chose to dismiss the subtle

because I thought its coherence were to end

I'd remember that this fleshy vessel

is but temporary coherence

that also pretends.

push

What if the way I learned to move around in life, is by pushing myself against other things?

What if I have only learned to propel myself,

by rejecting what I see unfit?

What if the fuel that drives me is...

the disdain of that I seek to escape?

And what seemed to be my goals, my desires

were merely a convenient ledge to step onto,

after my push away?

What if that's all I've learned to do? Push away, push away, push away.

And once I came to push enough off them away, I found myself in a space

where I don't feel any repulsions?

And hence, I cannot push.

No matter what next step or ledge I see, I cannot push. There's naught to push against.

I float in space unanchored.

And all the planets are far away,

and I have no oar, no water,

no walls to push against?

and I can only float and look from afar, unable to move, unable to reject what is not there?

If that is the case,

what do I have left to propel myself? What can I use?

Can I blow the air out of my lungs

to get to where I want?

Can I leak the blood off of my veins

and come closer to my next stop?

Can I cut and throw my own hand out?

Can I cry out for help?

What fuel can I use

if I still have desires,

but nothing to push against?

Pushing against my own state places me in a state of escape,

and would set and unwanted precedent.

Of just a perpetual escape from now, a perpetual escape from the present.

I wish for that not.

If I cannot repel the present, if I will not repel the present,

and I refuse to accept any particulars to reject,

how can I move?

With the softer draw of attraction?

The summoning of willpower from within.

The summoning of willpower from within.

What...

do I feel pulled enough towards to find it in me to summon my willpower from within?

A vision I read? The care of a woman?

Knowledge, skill, approval,

death.

Hmm. They all seem bland. Only death,

a tad intriguing.

Home, an environment of care?

Hmm.

Feels like something inside won't allow it.

It's long to try and it hurts to fail.

Too long to try for a probably doomed enterprise. Why would I risk so much for so long?

Mmm, what do I risk?

If there's nothing to push myself against,

If I, if now I just wallow onto nothing?

And allow decay, what's even worse than that?

Summoning up willpower, building up hope.

And then hurting when it fails.

That is what feels worse.

The risk of failing.

Feels dreadful indeed.

So much, I don't even realize it.

And all I feel is empty within.

Empty.

Empty, the fear of failing.

But what is it that I want to succeed in?

What I wrote about the vision is true. I feel no vision to follow. What I read, all that I read in the books, sounds wonderful in theory.

And dull.

When I transpose it to my life, dull.

It feels like "yes, I love that to be the world". And I know this knowledge, that seems like a secret, which is not meant to be a secret. Seems like knowledge for others to do great things. And I can tell them and I can let them know so that they can do the work. And I don't want to do the work. I don't feel close to the work.

Not as something I can do, other than in small tangents and tiny moments - a person here, a word there.

Otherwise, in my life, there is irrelevance with respect to world citizenship.

How can I contribute to that, when I relate to almost no one?

I can work on myself. I can look at myself.

And, know to this uniqueness I hold, that I can do.

I do them already. Some part in me complains.

Yes.

So keep at it while you so remain. Time changes anyway. What feels eternal to you is but a blip in a blip in a blip in a blip in a blip in a blip in a blip.

Within the infinitesimal blip of time.

empty time

I walk across my hallway

just like I did two hours ago

I turn the knob and push in,

and twirl in before I close the door.

my body moves by habit,

I merely see shapes whizz right by,

I hardly remember I'm alive or here

my intent is simply blank.

I look inside for causes

of this unusual state

unguided by direction

unhinged from concrete steps.

I feel caged by the habits

I've already carved before

into the space of matter,

and that I can carve no more.

beyond my tiny cave cage

lies the universe complete

and there were times when I longed for

the sparkles and secrets it held within.

but now I look out there,

beyond my tiny cage

and what I feel is oldness,

well-treaded lands of ash and clay.

no secrets to hold sparkle

the treasures I once sought.

no juice from any fruit out there

can quench an empty intent.

and so, without a compass, nor sparkles to trail,

I wallow in space ruled by instinct

where one cannot succeed nor fail.

all the outside feels unworthy

all objectives seem blasé.

all I'm left with is to look inside,

or to bounce around in this cage.

inside lies something, I feel it.

and I can barely hold my gaze.

if there IS something there to look at,

I hope to lock onto her face.

this hope alone still buoys

a flicker of life in my little cage.

Vision

where there is no vision, the people perish.

vision

I feel no vision.

it feels unwell.

how do I know?

nothing feels exciting.

almost nothing.

I know life ends

surviving is not a worthy vision.

I know opinions and fame are fickle

approval is not a vision.

I know all goods perish

wealth is not a vision.

I know experiences are all temporary

newness is not a vision.

I see how romance is a thumb-twiddling war of approval and power

romance is an illusion.

I see how desires ultimately only find clay and ash

satisfaction is not a vision.

I know all achievement is ephemeral

success is not a vision.

and I feel empty

futile

unwilling to lift a finger

beyond what my body demands I do to keep going

to avoid lack or pain.

I know the futility of survival

and yet I cling to it

the hubristic hypocrite

who keeps clinging to the edge of the pool,

and who claims to know the nature of the ocean.

what, then? eschew survival?

walk into material thin air?

discard the habits and cushions of civilization

and commit social suicide?

not yet, I feel.

The inconsistency of these thoughts is not important.

My shame of knowledge and fear together does not matter.

temporary mental clay,

soon to blow and wash away

if I but let them be.

then I let them be

and let me judge myself a fool

if so mind wishes

perhaps it can strangle its own

self-importance.