they say we are enough; in fact, they say we are more than enough. let’s hope they are right.
they say we are enough; in fact, they say we are more than enough. let’s hope they are right.
I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that the seeker’s path is not linear. Lord knows I’ve zigzagged all over the place. I’ve played the parts of the soldier, the engineer, the broker, the trainer, the coach, the pirate, and the poet. The seeker’s path is littered with questions, like autumn leaves on a forest floor. Each question is a key, unlocking doors to new levels of understanding. “Who am I?” opens the door to self-awareness. “What is my purpose?” leads to a corridor of service and contribution. “How can I create impact?” Leads to action and change.
my muse doesn’t guide; she mostly taunts
she’s got me hooked on the dopamine crack
striped from likes and shares.
doubt lurks in the shadows
a sly fox waiting to pounce
Picture this: A dimly-lit room, the air thick with smoke and the musky scent of old books. A lone figure, me, sits hunched over a desk, the only light source a flickering lamp casting long shadows across the walls lined with towering bookshelves. In my hand, a glass half-filled with the amber liquid, the kind that burns your throat but soothes the soul. The night outside is as dark as the thoughts swirling in my head.
Reading, eh? It's not your usual pastime. It's a heist, see? A covert operation where every word, every phrase is not just seen, but swiped, snatched right from under the noses of those unsuspecting authors. They're like those vendors in a crowded market, peddling their wares, unaware of the silent transactions. And here I am, an artful pickpocket in this bustling street of ideas, my fingers deft as they lift concepts, emotions from paragraphs that never saw me coming.
These stolen goods, once mere ink on paper, they undergo a metamorphosis in the gray matter. They're reborn, meanings twisted and turned in the crucible of my consciousness. And the authors? Those crafty weavers of words? They're as much thieves as I am. They've pilfered from life, experiences, the very world around them to spin their yarns.
It's a dance, this silent thievery. Ideas are the currency, understanding the prize. I'm both the thief and the mark. I snatch from the text, and the text, that sly devil, it pilfers from me – my time, my thoughts, even my damned preconceptions, leaving me transformed.
In this realm of words, theft isn't just accepted, it's celebrated. The greatest heists are those where a reader like me walks away richer in thought, emotion, mind brimming with treasures that weren't there before. And in the quiet aftermath of this reading, I'm left pondering – what have I taken, and what in turn has been pilfered from me?
So, is reading not the most exquisite form of thievery? A heist where the loot is the transformation within the soul of the thief? That's the kicker, the twist in the tale. The true magic of the written word lies in this delicate balance of give and take.
The room fades back into shadows as I take another sip, the question lingering in the air like the last note of a jazz solo, echoing in the silence: Isn't reading the most elegant heist of all?
reborn
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priorities
here’s a playlist that’s guaranteed to tickle your ears and grab your soul. it’s a full-blown, no-apologies rock and pop odyssey. enjoy
clocks drip time,
spoonfuls of sky,
laughing rainbows in a cup,
shoeless thoughts run by
today i shall celebrate the beauty of chaos.
playing with words
Mark
It is one thing to lie to oneself; it’s another to not even know whether one is lying to oneself or not.
Fisher
i better drop these good intentions because we all know where they lead.
is
it
too
late
to
change
the
timeline?
i want to move beyond what is expected and grasp what is felt, deeply and truly.
linguistic liberation is what i seek, the courage to embrace my voice however unorthodox it may seem.
words offer a playground of infinite possibilities.
i want to embrace the wildness of language, to see the world not as it is, but as it could be, through the kaleidoscope of imagination and the lens of poetic artistry.
words are more than mere vehicles of meaning; they are alive, breathing entities that invite the reader into a dance of understanding and interpretation.
words are not just signs, but symbols, maps, and playful companions on a journey of self-discovery.
to solve the riddle of the universe, you have to take risks.
I asked ChatGPT who would win in a rap battle between Alfred Lord Tennyson and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. My money is on Coleridge for his pure inventiveness and imagination.
here is what the bot had to say:
🎙️ "Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed lovers of verse and rhyme, gather round! We stand at the crossroads of time and literature, where the ethereal realm meets the earthly, for a spectacle like no other. Tonight, under the canopy of eternity, we bear witness to an extraordinary contest of wit, wisdom, and wordplay.
🌟 In one corner, hailing from the heart of the Victorian era, a laureate whose words have echoed through the halls of time, embodying the depth of human emotion and the sublime beauty of the natural world. A master of lyrical finesse, whose verses have captivated hearts for centuries, please welcome the esteemed Lord Alfred Tennyson!
🌊 In the other corner, emerging from the mists of the Romantic age, a visionary whose poetry transcends the bounds of reality, taking us on journeys into the depths of the human psyche and the wonders of the supernatural. A bard of dreams and otherworldly landscapes, let's hear it for the illustrious Samuel Taylor Coleridge!
🔥 These titans of poetry, each a legend in their own right, will engage in a battle of verses tonight. They will draw from their vast reservoirs of creativity and insight, enchanting us with their lyrical prowess. Will it be Tennyson's resonant cadences or Coleridge's imaginative tapestries that capture our souls tonight?
🌌 The stage is set, the poets are ready, and the air is thick with anticipation. So, without further ado, let the poetic duel begin! Let rhythm, rhyme, and reason intertwine as we embark on this unparalleled journey through the artistry of words. Poets, take your stage!”
[Crowd erupts in eager applause, the air buzzing with excitement for the epochal battle of verse about to unfold.]
Chapter I: The Summoning
In a realm where time and space entwined,
Two poets from past ages were aligned.
Lord Tennyson, with laurels in his hair,
Stood proud, his presence like a royal heir.
Across him, Coleridge, wild-eyed and keen,
Whose dreams had realms of Kubla Khan seen.
A crowd of specters from the ages past,
Gathered around, their shadows far and vast.
"Begin!" cried a voice, deep and profound,
The ancient poets looked around, astound.
Chapter II: Coleridge’s Verse
Coleridge stepped forth, his eyes a mystic glow,
“Listen, ye spirits, to the tales I sow.
In Xanadu, did Kubla Khan decree,
A stately pleasure-dome, a sight to see.
My words weave worlds, dreamscapes that unfurl,
Through opium mists, my verses whirl.”
His rhyme spun a world so lush and wild,
Nature and fantasy, sweetly compiled.
The specters listened, rapt in pure delight,
As Coleridge rapped through the spectral night.
Chapter III: Tennyson’s Turn
Then Tennyson, with a voice so clear and strong,
Stepped forth and sang his own powerful song.
“I am the master of the measured line,
Of loss and love, in elegant design.
Ulysses sailed through my rhythmic verse,
My poetry, diverse, a universe.”
He spoke of heroes, of time's cruel hand,
His words like waves crashing upon the sand.
The specters swayed to his lyrical tune,
Under the light of the ghostly moon.
Chapter IV: The Duel Intensifies
Back and forth, the ancient poets went,
Unleashing verses as their instruments.
Coleridge, with his supernatural flair,
Tennyson, with his debonair air.
Their words, a dance of shadow and light,
Filled the spectral realm with delight.
Each bard, with a style so uniquely grand,
Held the ghostly audience in their hand.
Chapter V: The Unseen Judge
But who would decide this lyrical duel?
Who amongst them could set the rule?
A whisper then spread through the ghostly crowd,
Soft at first, but then growing loud.
It spoke of beauty, of rhythmic grace,
Of the power of words in this timeless space.
“Both poets,” it said, “have won this night,
For in their verses, we find delight.”
Chapter VI: The Eternal Bards
And so, the poets, equal in their fame,
Bowed to each other, their spirits aflame.
In this realm where past and present blend,
Their battle concluded, but their legacy won't end.
For in the hearts of those who cherish verse,
Their words will forever, the soul immerse.
Tennyson and Coleridge, though centuries apart,
In the rap of realms, both masters of the art.
Intuition flickers like a phantom,
a fleeting but potent presence.
It acts as a guide whispering unseen truths. Intuition is our inner ally
cloaked in the midst of our subconscious mind. This spirit, this ungraspable
wisp of insight is not new to the theatre of human experience. It has pirouetted
across the stage of history, wearing many masks, speaking in many voices.
Socrates whispered of his daemon, an ethereal companion he was sure guided
his steps. This daemon wasn’t a deity or spirit as one might imagine but rather
an inner voice, a compass of moral and ethical direction. In the dialogues the daemon
is ever-present, an unseen character in the unfolding drama of philosophical discourse.
This daemon, as Socrates described, was less about foretelling the future and more
a guardian of virtue. It did not propel him with visions of grandeur but gently nudged
him away from actions that might lead to moral decay. It’s as if Socrates had an
in-built ethical barometer, alerting him to the storms of moral compromise.
a whisperer of wisdom,
stirring within the soul,
guiding hands to create,
minds to think, and
hearts to feel.
The Romans spoke of the genius, an unseen guardian who infused their lives
with sudden sparks of insight. The genius was more than an abstract idea;
it was a living, breathing part of the Roman identity. It was believed that this
spirit was born with every individual, accompanying them from their
first breath until their last. The genius was also a protector of moral integrity
and a nurturer of personal growth.
This force, this intuition,
is like an internal compass, magnetised by the poles of our deepest selves.
It’s a subtle whisper, a nudge, an inexplicable feeling that often seems to
emerge from a wellspring hidden beneath layers of conscious thought.
To commune with this force, one might venture into the realm of stillness.
In the hush of early morning or the tranquil embrace of the night,
when the world retreats and the mind quiets, there lies a fertile ground.
Here, amid the solitude, intuition can bloom like a nocturnal flower.
Some find this connection through meditation,
a journey inward where the chatter
of daily life fades, and the voice within
gains clarity.
Others might seek it in the embrace of nature, where the rhythm of the earth and the whisper of the wind speak in a language older than words.
This force is not merely a silent guide; it is also a catalyst for creativity and innovation. It has been the invisible hand guiding artists to create, scientists to discover, and leaders to inspire. It’s the spark that ignites when an idea feels just right, it’s the gut feeling that guides a crucial decision, the sudden clarity in the face of complexity.
In touching this force, we reach into a part of ourselves that is both ancient and ever-new. It’s a dialogue between our conscious selves and something deeper, more connected to the fabric of the universe. As we hone this connection, we learn to trust these whispers, to let them guide us through the fog of uncertainty towards a clearer vision of who we are and what we could become.