Under the subcutaneous layer,
like the plasma-filled pulsing artery,
its subtle rhythm barely visible
to the non-discriminating viewer
life flows, filling the space between moments
in steady, subconscious affirmation
of possibility and cosmic change.
So few notice its subtle beckoning.
Most, recognizing only the echo,
their reactions delayed, must dance off-beat
to an unheard Music, not at all sure
that the choreography even fits.
Only a rare few dare to change the steps
to follow the rhythm in their own veins.
17 DEC 2002
To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. – Oscar Wilde
The search for intelligent life on earth,
for purpose and meaning behind the veils,
to find out what each hour of breath is worth,
and learn something from each of my travails,
To want what I have, not have what I choose –
the quest that keeps leading me in and on,
it is an addiction, a thirst for truth
that leaves me randomly fool, king and pawn.
A preoccupation, that finds me thrust
out into the whole world, ever seeking
an answer, or perhaps, some new questions.
It has filled my lifespan, from dust to dust,
the soft sound of the universe speaking,
and seeing in it my own reflection.
17 DEC 2002
There are some who write endless streams of words,
describing the minutiae with detail
that just boggles the imagination;
and every so often, epiphanies
result, for me, just from reading the stuff.
But the writer shows no visible sign
of having grown or changed from the event –
as if it hadn’t happened in their life.
Then there are others, who in one small word
show signs of positive evolution,
and actually learn from their experience.
It takes both kinds to make a world, I guess;
but if own your life does not involve you,
what is the point of writing it all down?