A Poet's Journal: April 2nd, 2014
It is hard to find something so named in our consciousness that is not subjective or open to other views and other means in other people. It is we, who in our burdened perceptions, hold confidence in them, only to find that when they are presented to reality, their confidence in us never existed. It is as if we have been climbing a tree, and once we get to the top, find that all the branches below us are too weak to support our descent--but how did we get up there in the first place? We love being above our troubles and those who cause them, and even more to hand things down to them; we are the first to go, then tell them to come along, or the first to stop, and push them to go ahead. The only thing real is the dimension of the unprovoked, neither starting nor finishing, but in our hands before we even know it's there.
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