A Poet's Journal: January 31st, 2015
Sometimes we impose our will so heavily upon something we wish to happen, that we easily forget, and even prefer not to know, what we have set out for. It is only by some stroke of luck that we find the original idea in the overcrowded world of our own inflated personality and turn to it again, as if it were the triumph of superior intelligence. It is like walking up the side of a mountain only to arrive at the top and declare that a mountain was never there to be climbed, but that our climbing defined it. Everything is glorious in hindsight and serves the ego to desire more and keep capturing, while in the mean time we are merely pushing at things that we have forgotten the meaning to. This is not to say that our lives should be planned out before every step, but does insist that the planning is always renewed or recreated by something we have not yet perceived, and possibly will never perceive, and so leaves us to creating our own small endeavors for comfort and satisfaction, in the search to finally arrive. But there is always a feeling of rightness and detachment buried under this idea of getting somewhere or attaining something, yet for this to happen, the idea must be left alone, because if there is ever anything taking shape before us, it is not found in a great or small intelligence, nor in the prepared undertaking. The only thing it implies is to look not for ourselves or anyone else, but just to look.