on sheep and sleep

Of course I know that He has this Plan

and so I wade through the thick of it all

even in that moment of

an unavoidable sense of de ja vu

But then there's moments when I think

Let this be just a little different;

You know...

Seeing as it looks like

all my prayers

are being answered in one divine sweep!

Just a hint of something different;

a deviation from that pattern that drives me bonkers, almost!

And then it strikes:

that element of over-thinking things.

Aargh!

And in one Whoosh!

its all a chaotic

sludge of something

a bit dramatic.

Drama is good.

But not if you're trying

to get some

sleep.

As it is I rarely

sleep

on flight.

Sigh. So there's some catching up to do.

Hmm...

Maybe I should be doing grander things,

like counting sheep.

Backwards!

choices and minds

We all make our choices, she said

You made yours, and I made mines...

Aah, but... the point is that they are choices!

Indeed, she said. Choices, made. But led, by circumstance.

Choices still! he said.

She sighed.

I read your note with great interest, he said.

Yes? said she.

Yes. he said.

Made up your mind then, she said.

Yes. he said.

I see. So what? she said.

You tell me. said he.

I guess there's nothing more. she said.

Nothing? said he.

Yep. Choices, remember? she said.

You made yours. And I did too. Choices and minds are binding things, said she.

Aah? he quizzed.

Ah-ha! said she.

what ego said to soul & vice versa

Ends and beginnings are never as circular as they might seem. Well, at least, not at first. Nostalgia is a thing of dreams and damnation. Many a poet has stolen its fragrance to adorn mere words; or used it to display grief and loss and deep regret. But what does one do to a bout of nostalgia that is unnameable. No title fits it, aptly, so fleeting is its source. A mirage, almost there... Even in dreams, a touch, a word, a look, a conversation between souls... is being reduced to a misty moment of an over-worked imagination. Nothing less. Nothing more.

But the battle of wits and grace between ego and soul persists. How does one hold onto something that was never really there, says ego? And how does one let go of something that truly was, says soul? And at what point are we meant to know the difference, say I?

In the beginning ego was left sulky, thirsty, and soul was nourished, gleaming, in pure joy. Now, ego remains to pick up the pieces, saying 'what a mess, i told you so!' while soul dips into the well of muddy tears looking for a drink to make it forget. Or is it to drown out the noise of the ego!

Ha! Says Ego. You see! Ordinary pathos makes a better story than the tales of 1001 Nights, not so?

Soul says No! In that realm where souls take flight, the dance of joy still exists..
You belong to me. And I. Am only. Yours.