here i am delivering my personal sutta: my life, my values, my traditions, and as it turns out, i’m the only one listening
We whisper into the early morning hour out of respect for the dying night
And your body is the harp of your soul,
And it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds.
And the wind and pine combine to whistle a melody, but what of that melody if there were no ear to hear ?
and what is the mind, but the engineer of the body’s will
The above quote: Khalil Gibran from The Prophet pg. 81
As you sit there watching the homeless man with carpet padding scarfed around his neck draping down to his feet flip through a magazine he dug out of a trash can, leaning against the trash can, legs crossed, you think: at least there’s always hope. . .
You’re wronged until they’re rot, then what have you got?
Orb weaver! Holding the world together every quiet evening morning I leave for work. Poplar leaves in the breeze and pasted to the ground
New study finds snoring may actually be subliminal human mating call
Stream of crows, from horizon to horizon, night roost
Today, i want to feel the pain—
let it be;
this self was built around the pain of yesterday.
In the silence between words is the yawning gap of my loneliness and beyond this seemingly endless abyss the nation-state borderline rages like singed leafy edges holding on hard to what use to be