In front of my screen again.
The white blankness of the page staring at me.
A myriad of possible subjects array themselves.
Ready to be spoken into being,
but none are willing to be grasped,
Attempting to hold on to them,
Their meaning evaporates.
Their moment has not come.
They linger waiting,
for the winds of serendipity,
To give them wings and life.
In fractious moments,
When passion brings them forth,
They are cast upon the fire,
That tests their metal.
The smoke from the fire,
That lingers and forms,
In the heaviness of the moment.
The lightness of the thought.
Others breathe it in,
And speak of it's qualities.
Then it flies to the heavens,
An offering to the gods,
On the sacrificial pyre.
I write this for myself.
To reinforce what is,
There is no struggle.
There is only what is.
Where I am, is where,
I am meant to be.
The Tao of life.
Mastery of myself,
Is mastery of the world.
