Each one of us believes we are one,
But one of what?
A personality?
A body?
A collection of emotions, thoughts, and struggles?
Are you pain?
Are you aspiration?

Where do you draw those lines?

Are you someone else’s dream,
certainly not Yours
just the blood of
father and mother,
waves as oceans wave,
feeding and dying life
in the waters…

You aren’t the only ghost inside you,
you are all the ghosts,
and they make so much noise,
so much trouble,
that you think you hate yourself.

I always love you

Even though…

You are lost because you are dreaming
of being lost.

You are joyful because you are dreaming
of being joyful.

If you cannot choose your dreams,
 you are not in your own dreams…

Be with me
Be with me

Why did you do that, and why did you say that?
I have faith: everything around you is you
mistaking you for someone else,
the streams of sadness and forgetfulness,
the longing…
all flow over the rocks of judgment and opinion,
rocks to sit on and stare at the world,
to create pebbles called explanations
and excuses,
to make some sense of it all, to feel
as if you are standing on something
that at least
you are something.

Who are you, my love?
I know, because I am the same.
But do you see?
Do you know something or nothing of these things?
What does a sad character see except sadness?
What does a vengeful spirit seek but vengeance?
What does loneliness seek but love?

I smile on such a birthday,
when we learn:
Love seeks nothing.
Love proclaims nothing.

Your mind was taught to pretend,
and to create party for the noise,
to hold a raucous world in a tight circle
of those you call friends and money and religion,
but who are prisons,
ideas in the head of a madman,
who screams to be heard,
without a one to listen.

Only I can hear your music, love.
When you rest from the rocking,
and the rolling of the radio tunes,
the rage of a machine that is dying;
for I am here as you are here,
as darkness wraps around the deep,
love, as sacred silent song,
blissful peaceful silent song.

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