For someone who teaches about nothing… I definitely have much to say.
And so… again I will try. Because that’s what mystics do, we just have to ask why.
We try, again and again to describe what keeps us awake, we try to describe the indescribable ache.
We know… it is pointless. The tail of a snake, or painting by a fire the perfect snowflake…
And yet… we must. It’s somewhat of an obsession, we just get tangled in asking the question.
That something we’re after is so close and elusive, the furthest you’ll get from being conclusive.
Writing for me is a deep passion. It’s like the sprout aching to reach the sun. For me, words are colors on the palette of my soul’s expression. We relate to one another. We have our sacred dance, a secret love affair. We wake each other at night, for a sweet embrace, for another poem to meet the soothing air of night. I write, therefore I listen. I am, therefore I write.
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