Evolve; end. 

Let's bottle summer 

And freeze it, 

A drink might 

Come in handy sometime.

Have you ever poured 

Scathing water on yourself in the shower?

An entire bucketful,

Mug by mug, slowly;

Then all at once.

A futile attempt to

Rid yourself of your thoughts.

As if the water could wash away

The guilt and the shame and 

The pain you're feeling.

Instead, all it does is make your tears vanish.

Almost as if they were never shed. Not a trace.

The dampness of your heart

Melding with the withering shell

That is your quivering body.   

It's self punishment.

A means to redeem yourself

From the torment.

Perhaps this is why some of us

Take a hot shower at the end of the day.

Perhaps this is one of those
Secrets that die with us.

Perhaps this is why

We bolt our doors.

To lock in our secret that is the pain, not modesty.

Subsist

The mind has been seen as nothing more than a social construction. To call the mind a social “construction” seems to be an egregious underestimation of its very existence and capabilities.

The mind is the only thing that exists. It is the ultimate phenomenon- the sole survivor in this cosmic soup that seems to be floating in the terrain of this incomprehensible nowhere. Lacking physical form leads one to minimize its form as an entity. The mind is a driving force, the ultimate beacon that sets everything in its place and in motion in this nebulous fabrication that is beyond us. Everything else that ‘exists’ is a concept.

            One of the most astounding features of the mind is its ability to subsist. Despite this, the mind has concocted itself an illusion of objectivity outside of its realm; one that will actively discern and feed information only to question its very own existence. Therein lies the irony.

             Reality is a construction of the mind. It is a nothing but a mere fabrication. The physical manifestation- reality, the world around and the perception of human form- could be a mere tool for the sole sake of amusement; a means of reprieve from its state of isolation. To say the inverse is to discount the significance of this natural phenomenon that makes ‘life’ possible; and existence itself, of the self and the other.

              The mind is the creator. It is the mother of reality. The matriarch that guides us into the convoluted illusion of material and matter. Reality is a quasi-physical construct that is and could also be an iteration of the existence of the mind.  The illusion of reality is the substrate it requires to exist in some unknown harmony.  

             If this unsung and interwoven fabric of harmony is a seamless collective, then each facet of reality would be a mere thread that would fray when one questions the synthesis of life. No?

You were water,

I was ice.

I am water,

You are ice.

We pour into each other.

Seamless,

Formless,

Boundless.

Over time, we 

Take turns becoming the other,

Saving ourselves from drowning

In this ocean of insanity.