It occurred last night in groping after the elements we derive from literary compositions, that is like the pleasure which the prince Le Boo received from seeing himself for the first time in a mirror,—a mysterious & delightful surprise. A poem, a sentence causes us to see ourselves. I be & I see my being, at the same time.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Journals and Miscellaneous Notebooks 5:278

Have you ever looked yourself in the mirror?

I mean, really looked

              into the wavering pupil that focuses on the bearings of your curiosity.

Curious to who resides inside, I allow my hand to courageously explore the page.

Once let wild, the back bone of reality crumbles into the palm of fantasy and my skin is pleasantly smoldered by the flame of my essence. 

To meet oneself is to understand one's existence. 

To write is to meet oneself.

The words I've set free which reveal degrees of enlightenment cuddle beneath my warm belly- 
                   for what good is a composed word if the only willing receiver is the fabricator.

With this in mind, exploration continues, the hand keeps moving and adept at understanding oneself shall the bearer of enlightenment become.


That's what it's all about anyway, isn't it?
                 finding
                    realizing
                   understanding


will we ever be satisfied?