first-person disguise

 

when to leave the nest 

of first-person perspective?

is love ever not audience perceived?

how to leave the self for the sense 

of the collective?

isn't that love-frequency on all of the time,

but only rarely ever made conscious 

to the self?

breadcrumbs between in-breaths.

if something exists as constant,

how does perception make it evident?

what is so shapely around love as framing

to make it possibly conspicuous?

experience is so druggy in nature.

it's like hearsay that never stops.

I wanted the feel of love,

without the gloves of touch

or the framing of the self narrative.

maybe love is the only feel there is in essence

and everything else is nudges as inferences

as if experience is only very indirect at best.

to me, average everydayness 

is a wet blanket,

murkiness passing as food-fill,

nutritionally neurotic 

but choosy preoccupied.

we all only have self-insider-perspective.

is that our means 

of drilling the self terrain for love? 

isness seems so microscopic as myth-full

in this first-person perspective

for love to secrete as serum and sacred.

I don't even want love-outcome obvious,

just the ever waterfall of upliftment, 

the constancy of boundary-less-ness, 

the every invitational oncoming,

where oneness answers 

without the need for questions

or the prompting of otherwise.

just to be the eyes of all,

the feel for and from everyone.

somehow kept secretly so

as if I am just a first-person disguise

parading around as if one . . .