Love, Memory & Thought

That which springs from the memory is not love
The mechanical repetition of memory is not love
The re-iteration of memory and reliving of memory in billion different ways is not love
And the inheritance of memory of love from my environment is not love

The pleasure of a memory is not love
The fear of a memory is not love
The escape of a memory is not love
The experience resulting from memory is not love

That which belongs to me, that which I think is mine, that which I think I posses is not love
It is only a memory, a memory of the thought
A thought of the memory

so many thoughts, so many not’s
so many not’s with so many knots
so many knots with so many thoughts

My own thoughts and the resulting memories are my own confinements, my own comfort
The more I try to escape, the more I try to cope, the more knots I weave, the more memories I cave myself into

How many thoughts till I am free from the memory of thoughts
No thought that I know thought as the thought

From no time to time I create time
And from time to time and in-between time, I create a space, space for a time, for a thought

Can this thought of mine be free of memory, can this thought be free of recollection, reliving of the memory?
If so, what would such thought and the resulting action if everyday life be?
And most importantly, what would the resulting I that I call MY, of such thought be?

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Life through a few Loaves of Bread

For a few loaves of bread and a few grains of grub
In-between the joys of pleasure and 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 sorrows

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

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

I wonder if I am dreaming, if I am asleep
Only to realize that the dreamer and that 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 and my own grief

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 is through and for a few grains of grub and few loafs of bread

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