for when

 

when self is lost in the circumstantial,  

when listlessness is an ever-undercurrent response,

when dialogues happens in versions of unsaidness,

when accomplishment is the only light lit in the room,

when the motor's running

and the only means available as mind-speak,

and the only form of exercise available is strategize,

when critical eyes become colorblind

and can only see in successes or failures,

and the highest mountain ever attempted to climbed 

but never reached

is the vista from true self-dialogue.

it is a mountain without altitude 

and totally compose of attitude.

so when do-being and be-doing 

seem to be much the same,

when deep thought is not about the thought 

but about the thinker of the thought,

when the poker of life 

is not really about the tells for winning or loosing

but eventually becomes about the tells 

from camaraderie and idiosyncrasies

and the feel of things rather than the think?

it's when aloneness provides 

for the richest in depth of self conversation 

to be done in all sincerity 

with honesty with naiveté.

as a listener,

eventually the only hurt that really matters 

is the one done in aloneness,

where the self as healer is unaware.

and if humans only saw birds as ever in flight,

they would be regarded that species 

as is strictly philosophical,

for humans, everything perceived as up in the air, 

only presents as renderable but not meaningfully real.

for those birds lives are perceived as a here to there 

of somewhere else.

this is where immediacy has many faces 

but really only projects the ones that get attended, 

as if an affronting mirror 

and the depth of that mirror is totally dependent 

upon the quality of the eyes cast upon it, 

reflected back in the viewing.

for the river of self is only seen 

in surface still-shots taken.

and then the chase after the flow 

is a constant effort of living.

and doing-being intelligent 

is just oars on the boat of self

that take one from here to there 

but have little to do with the buoyancy 

of that being, being afloat.

the conundrum of give me liberty is that

in that process of pursuit, 

one can never be free.

for the search is ever the admittance of absence

and the successful results gained

is only the wardrobe of achievement.

where memories are a trophy-case filled 

but never the source of embodiment.

and as life passes by, 

the only importance of remembered,

is that memory is not of you 

but of you as part of those that composed you.

it's where we all live, 

to become the romance of livingness.

it's how we learn to let isness teach us 

how to dance to our own internal melody of being.

for the mind provides for all of the shorelines

and emotions provide for all of the seas.

yet the spirit of each of us 

provides for our sense of liquidity. 

facing the land-surface of reality

and for all of the land of our lifetime of walking it,

we never are really taught nor come to learn 

how to become the sea.

for we only get the skills of walking upon 

that then applies to the swim afloat and the run along,

but for when that becomes our mainstay,

we never become the free-dive within us 

to be . . .