self as concerns

what is so contemplative about self 

as concerns?

is it an invocation 

for self reflective dialogue?

is it the pertinence of what is said 

by some of the voices of me?

do they ever speak on behalf of what is felt?

maybe they only and always speak 

in felt-terms.

how does feel have a voice 

in mental rhetorical declarations?

who of me listens 

after years of actual chatter?

when does the emotional, 

considered surreal,

become the spoken truth from deep within?

who, of the mindful side of self, 

has the aptness to listen?

why are some people so gifted that way

while others wander in audience, 

otherwise outwardly entertained?

that inner conversation never ends.

surely it's back-burner constant, 

even if words 

aren't actually inwardly exchanged.

it's not like glances occur between them.

but the room of the being 

has occurrences of mood.

there is the source of the broadcast of self.

some of that broadcast makes it 

all the way to appearances,

while others remains thick in thee, 

as interior reaches.

it's an effort to go inside 

the self sense and ponder.

where does relevance adhere 

to a person in character

and where does the insularity 

of self reside and resume?

surely self has a life, 

but it may not be as the one, who is living it.

there is the disparity of image and account

versus the calling and the intention of effort.

so where within do I take up residence?

I don't have words for the self of me, 

at a loss.

half full, half empty, does not readily apply.

burning candle, casting light, 

is more appropriate.

but am I measuring by shadows reflected

or how far-seeing can a self be seen?

all of this is 

as contemplative behind the sighs.

so much momentum to the livingness

yet there is an inner space, 

not to be denied.

will language ever be able to assert 

and then claim?

there is this place within

beyond the wardrobe of intent.

it is not convened, 

as if ever to soulfully speak,

but it has a majesty, 

that I don't know if I have a life for. 

sure, it is a sacred space within me,

but at times, 

I don't have apparent access either.

for I am grossly reality distracted.

but then, as almost unexpected,

there we are to start with.

until I am more of me, 

where we are one

how can that be?

the more pedestrian part of me 

wants self dialogue

and the more essential part of me 

passively waits,

while I take off 

all of the conditioning of being,

while I make admittance 

to the bluff of my concerns,

while I shut down 

the heavy machinery of being

and give way to the fine-tuned within me.

it isn't that I am going to come back 

with lessons or answers.

why I make it into a journey, 

is baffling,

when we are right here, 

as the same me.

I get that even contemplative is sided, 

but a necessity.

maybe the real world is rude in that way.

maybe the real world migrated to crassness, on its own,

and I have to make up for that, 

within me.

and self-dialogue 

is all that I can currently handle.

I need a daily walk in the forrest, beyond conjecture.

I want where I am gong to come from deeply within.

how did ordering from the menu become so habitual?

I want to mind the clay, before I make the pot,

before I ritualize into presenting the tea of me.

did I say that correctly? . . .