Book excerpts from the Spirit and Flesh religion and spirituality online library.
Poetry: fledgling: inner confusion, outer contortion: metaphysical prose poem
A book excerpt from the spiritandflesh.com religion and spirituality online library.
You were trying to complete a puzzle without having first collected all the pieces. You wanted to make sense of what is senseless. You wanted to finish what you forgot you had not started. You sought to reduce yourself towards an irreducibility, to be conscious of vacant ecstasies. You strove to dissipate and to occur, to hope without needing, and to run without fear. You imagined you were living in two worlds, when actually you were dying in both. You wanted to return to where you never had been. You sought freedom from seeking. You were earnest to be still. You wanted to be. You wanted to not-be. You wanted to detach from detachment, to cling to not-clinging, and to heroically surrender. You were trying to fall down gracefully. You thought you could be full of emptiness. You wanted to unknow the known, and to know the unknown. You sought an intelligent, lucid ignorance. You wanted the reconciliation of the inner with the outer to be a comfortable, sane madness. You were trying to tread water, while still standing on the shore. You wanted to die in life, and to live in death. You wanted to attend your own absence. You wanted old answers, not new questions. You wanted nothingness to have context, but then it would be something, would it not? You wanted the spirit to contort into a recognizable form, but then it would not be spirit. You wanted separateness to be uncategorizeable. You wanted directions to the hidden treasure, but then it would not be hidden. You wanted only petty, swallowable, meaningless understandings, so you could continue in the world despite your inability to continue in it.
And a bird, with both feet held fast to a branch, flaps and flaps, curses and screams, and then forever assumes it can't fly.
(excerpted from THE DREAM OF BEING: aphorisms, ideograms, and aislings, by Jack Haas)
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