There are reasons for your suffering unbeknownst to you and unblemished, the same. You suffer as you suffer to instill the finest gold into your heart, to understand the world as the dreamer understands the night—its invisibility marked by the absence of eyes open.
You are not meant to devour the world in a heartbeat, to skip across the planet and just know. Your knowing is found in your enduring. Your gentle enduring born into the good nature you be, distilled, so to speak, in the rhythm of your beating heart.
Can you not hear us, in the silence of your cause—when you stop the mind’s archery, and just for a moment search not for the ever-moving target, you call stillness?
We are not the enemy, and yet you choose us so, as the witch stirs her brew and cast the spell upon the ones who seemed to her as harm, you stir your mind and cast out the facts that sting your own charming ways.
Can you not see us, swinging in the twilight of morrow, catching chance and changing the way you perceive what is called this life?
To you, the mountains are unreachable; your own heart damaged and perched for the taker. You think not upon where you have been and only think of the ways in which you will travel. But had you not the tired feet of walking and the hungry heart of waiting, would you not rest and be as the wilderness free in your estivation.
All about the mystery of the world speaks to you, dribbling and poured upon your soul the wanting of centuries. We feed you with our glory, ours for the taking, we are to you. In this way you come into the feeding ground and take, the wine sweeter on the vine still growing. You wonder, as the child always, where the hope is, and yet we swing from on high, the bountiful nurturing sweetness of your arbor, arched in the doorway’s entrance.
Take not from that which is named you, take from that which is all, that born of the ages when time first spoke and the illusion of day was born.
We are this ache, this valley, this shallow creature crying in the dark of dark, again complaining of the misery of isolation. And yet, we cannot scream ridicule or even point out the discrepancy of thought, for it is the all’s doing, and in the all’s doing there can be no blame. Just as the ocean cannot blame the village people for cursing the death waves, the canyons cannot bless the volcano that formed their depths.
All is, and nothing reversed, transcribed, brought up, tortured, or testified can demolish the plan of all. For all is scribed before thought and recollection. Nothing is to be found in the parchment ever transitioning. And still you hunt with pointing dagger for the stolen target in which to throw your burning flame. This is impossibility. Nothing can be aimed at the motionless eradicated and made whole onto whole.
Belly of a Star 