How is the question?

I have been called a pretend ascetic recently who needs puppy dog attendees in order to feel accepted.

I stand corrected and bow to the higher powers that they may grant me audience.

I write out of a suspicion that there’s something trying to express itself through this pen.

I have no idea, so I continue unknown to myself and scribble out letters toward what?

I pray that since I’ve lost my way and no longer know how to be civil, it could be many things but things are not what this is about!

I look around inside for some guide lines as to who I’m suppose to be but the heat of the day rules the roost. I am left to listen to the scratching of this pen and hold myself in purgatory while I make up my mind as to how to be kind to myself.

So far its clear that this is yet another circle around itself, searching the edges of awareness for hints from within. Hints that could reveal the mystery lying underneath the reality of this fading day.

I sit corrected, alone in this empty room, empty by intention, and express the unexpressable as a way of weeding through the endless noise of my head.

What is the question?

How is the question? Is it round? Does it see itself as I’ve been told? Perhaps the structure is showing?

Could that be the case? How then will the structure show itself? Will it stand alone? No, it will remain underneath, holding things together like a bowl made with my two hands, cupping the air.

A net that connects the world to me, around me, within me. A net that reaches across time and space, a net that gives unity to life by holding everything together and reaching out past the stars, past the words, past the thoughts, past the solid emptiness of everywhere.

Let it hold me.

Each time I loose my place, let it find me, let me find it, let me know I belong to life.

For now and forever.

May 17th, 2012

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