When you get shy, you’re simply thinking of yourself. Stop it. Step out of yourself.
I have died at the ripe age of twenty.
Smile, for the world didn’t get a chance to disappoint me.
I have died at the mature age of ninety.
Smile, for my life was more than satisfying.
I have died suddenly-out of the blue.
Smile, for I didn’t have to fall ill before you.
I have died from a long illness.
Smile, for I had the chance to say goodbye.
I did not want to leave this Earth.
But smile, for I am still here among you.
Why are you crying?
Can you not see I am smiling?
Truth is unoriginal.
Do you see
that you can’t hear snowfall?
Do you sense
that you can’t see love?
Do you grasp
that you can’t catch poems?
Smell this glass.
Go on taste this cloud.
These material senses won’t get you far until
the velvet glove caress your soul.
I came to
pen another poem for you,
but even every unwritten poem
The reason as to why a human cannot give birth to himself is because he needs someone to help him. We are altricial, or helpless at birth, because we have to depend on others so that later in life when we are capable, we help those in need. And this is very much part of the circle of life.
Name and form are simply illusions of separation. Love doesn’t make us blind; rather, it erases the illusions so we can see clearly.
How is it possible, you ask, for love to be greater than the person who does the loving? That’s because love defies the rules of reason. It is the only exception.
For what was it about books that once finished left the reader in a bit of a haze and made them reread the last few sentences in order to continue the ringing in their hearts a while longer, so as not to let the silence illumine the fact that reading, they had gained something – distance, a lesson, a companion, a new world – but now, after the last full stop, they had lost something palpable and felt a little emptier than before.
Of course, I am religious.
I worship love.