Minds' Cornucopia

Another day of life. It seems my mind becomes embalmed in the utter chaos of its' intruding thoughts. Lines between what is, and what isn't become blurred, as if one were struck by some unknown assailant. Existentially, there becomes a desperate plea to understand this pain. Herein, lies humanity, and all of the abundant entrapments. All of innovation has wrestled with the universe, seeking to find the reasons to these very things we all see.

I am in love with my mind, and the reality it sees before it, yet I am disturbed at its current unending failures, or so it may seem. When do we really see the truth? Of ourselves, the ones we love, the entire fabric, which binds us to this current space and time? I have learned who I am through words, the very ones I have gracefully been able to place on paper, and then transferred to this said medium. When I write, I feel at home. The inner most being inside feels safe, and my mind becomes a traveler, wondering to a plethora of thoughts that are then excavated, and then brought to reason. What brings it here? What forms our sensibilities, as we are yet too blind to see tomorrow, as if babes, is our creator. I call this being God, you may call them Universe. We are wisped and cradled into the next second, unable to fully control the unknown, which is every breathe, and in our autonomy, we must see our mere infantile nature, and we must laugh

This I know, all thoughts cannot be trusted. But we can trust that we are safe in what brings light, and thus, life is born. A new life, one in which we realize love, peace, gentleness, kindness, joy, and laughter must be constantly pulled, and tugged at, so more shall be produced. We see what it means to toil the soil of our being, as our ancestors toiled away at the earth. It is here we find the reasons for things. Our inward parts, what keeps us alive, cannot be seen on the mere surface of observing another. One needs tools to discover. And we see darkness seems too awaits, beckoning, as it is as inevitable as night, for us to see it, and to behold it. The thoughts of malice, wickedness, hate, envy clash with the former of love and the counterparts therein. What then, shall be outwardly professed, to be picked and bundled, from the earth of our souls? That in which we choose to seek, however hard the inclement weather may seem, for there are seasons of dry and seasons of ripe harvest, and we must indeed have both to know the difference.

Alas, we see that one shall eventually bring another. Life shall produce death, and vice versa. We see the balance of thought is derived from our willingness to see the perspective. To acknowledge the death of one thought, shall indeed bring life to new ones. We must not have it another way. We must not pillage our garden, to destroy the sanctity of the light inside of us, for fruit that appears ripe in nature, but comes with the hefty toll of its inherent futility to satisfy. The fool is the one who is depraved, who cannot bear good fruit , and is starved, unable to sense the blessing of a fruit that came from relentless cycles of work, coupled with stillness.

I understand and contend to the light inside, which guides me to see the error of my ways. This is the spirit of truth, that was descended upon my being as if in an whirlwind, and tickled me, as a parent may do a child, to share their knowledge of this very thing in which it has brought to the feet, and so to the mind to tell the heart, it shall be okay. So whether by the raining of tears in a storm, unable to see the sky to know of the end, or by the laughter which shall come as the sun to light thy, soul, I am watered and I grow, thus, my fruit may be plucked for the enjoyment for all of creation.