Why

The answer to every question is why
and the question to every answer is why
I speak not of “Why?” but I speak of “Why”
For this “Why?” is seeking/dependent on the answer from the other and this “why” is independent of the answer

When I live in why, fear in the why and love in the why
Maybe then I will be able to understand for myself,
the why that is questioning, the why that has the questions, the answers, the fear and the love

Maybe then, I may come across the why that is questioning the why
For in this why, I may find out the why behind the why that raised the why within the why

And in this why that raised the why, this why that is questioning the why, I may find out not an answer, to the why to the why, but a different kind of question
Rather than ending the question with an answer, I may come across the question to the question

Now maybe if I question the question that is questioning the question
I may come across the why, that is asking the why that is asking the why, that there is a why to the why to the why.

This may look like, I am trying to get to a point of origination of the why to my trained mind but it is not
So long as there is a point of origination, a root, then that root becomes my reference point, that becomes my perception, My filter, my new reality, my own confinement to find an answer within the other / a self, separate thought within the thought

For each reality I create with my perception is another illusion, for my perception is also an illusion and each illusion I create is my new reality, for my perception is my reality
For both reality and illusion are perceptions of the same mind, same thought

So now that I question the why that is questioning the why that is questioning the why, not to find an answer, not to do this or that and simply questioning why
I wonder of the state of that mind
I wonder of the state of that very thought

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Survival as My Revival

For a few loaves of bread and a few grains of grub
In-between the joys of pleasure and in the sorrows of pain
I find my life I call life, I define this as my life

Enslaved to my desires
Engulfed by the objects of my desire
I make my desire my attire
And I roam the streets of slavery in the savory of my for hire

Unable to create a life on my own
I recreate and procreate on the knife of pleasure and pain

Lost in the images of imagination, I build walls of hallucination
And I deck my walls with accusations of the other

Comfort as my fuel
Comfort of Security as my duel
I burn in the flames of my own habit

Unable to open up to the unknown
I stone the unknown for the known, to the known, through the known

I trade freedom for security to find freedom through security
For I know of no freedom without security

I wonder if I am dreaming, if I am asleep
Only to realize that the dreamer and that which is being dreamed are me, one and the same
I wonder of that which I wake up to, I wonder if that is another dream within my dream of the dream

Unknown of my own known, I weave a web of a prison, a prism
Where I am the thief ad I am the police

Tired of the games and afraid of the memes and the names of the memes
Walloped by my own imagination, I no longer can gallop through my memory of life
For my life has become a few grains of grub and few loafs of bread

Survive

Survival

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My Sense as My Lens

The lens of my sense has silenced me to my own sense accepting the sense of the lens as my sense
With these lenses full of senses that are not even mine, I go around creating more lenses over senses creating new perceptions of my senses

With the new senses, I perceive the world with my senseless senses creating labels.
Labels with tables. Tables filled with my senses, tables filled with the rubble of my senses.
Not knowing the rubble I created on my tables and with these tables filled with Rubbles, I create bubbles, bubbles through which I can no longer see but live in fear to break open the bubble.

I bobble back and forth in the little bubble. The bubble “I” call life
Now I label the life called bubble as life itself, never understanding what life really is, but only perceiving life as I wanted it to be within my bubble
and I blame the nature for not being a nurture to me.

When I understand, actually understand that it is me who separated life into my own bubble filled with my rubble, I may understand my separation of life is not life, my division is not life
For where there is separation, there is always a control over one another, on each other.

Is controlling each other, manipulating one another to satisfy my own individual wants, wants made of rubble in my bubble called Life?
Not knowing that I don’t know, will I come to know about life, life beyond these lenses, senses beyond these lenses?

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No Time to Know Time

From no time to time, I wake up to time
I run after time, for time, time after time, with no time for time to know time
Hoping one time to have time to know time

And when it is time to know time, I have no more time
For I have spent all my time chasing time, thinking it’s my time
But it was never my time, for I had no time for time

All of time is a waste of time
The bad time, the good time, both are a waste of time
For both are time but not my time or the very time

To perceive time with my time is to split time to watch time
And that is also time, time within time
I may know fast time, slow time, this time and that time but I may never know time, in no time
for I am time

The very thought is time and the very trot is time
what is time that has no thought of time?

Maybe that which is matter to time is time to matter
For that which doesn’t matter has no time in my time to matter time

Knowing I am time, can I be time?
And can I be time when there is an “I/I am” in time
Is that Time?
And is it time to know time

Timely

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