I thought I could get by
by having a meaningful life.
Well, that has become my fallback position.
No matter how much I could stuff meaning into everything,
there were gaps, blind-spots, and huge vacancies evident.
No matter how much I created agreement and confidants,
so many things could not be brought into words.
Not even the grasp of it was a possibility.
Yet itness is a form of solids in suffering.
Explanations seem like a form of dalliance,
a small but warm fire in an unspoken land of isolation.
Even experience of itself, is an addiction, with style
points.
I get nothing from experience that isn’t of self-promotion.
Experience is a form of myopic chatter that fills the screen.
Sitting in a self and participating as such is blinding.
I sense a horizon that is without contrasts to define it.
There is some essentialness without division.
It has the energetic patterns of incessant laughter.
Not laugh at or laugh with, but the essence of laugh within.
That, in and of itself, has no meaning as if to justify.
I named my awareness of the essence of it
and found myself, once again, on the small side of being.
I fell into the vat of meaningful
as experience serves it up meal after meal.
I wasn’t inquiring about becoming a breatharian,
I just thought I could get by by having a meaningful life.
Why is void so full and rich with emptiness
and I, a moth to a flame beyond light I cannot see . . .
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