i thought i knew what love was.
until now,
there then,
we define as past,
we look at,
agree,
it was.
Well maybe. I could see things differently. Things could all look
a heck of a lot different than they do.
Things don't have to seem this way at all.
Things are this way, well; because the breeze blew them this way,
no other reason.
Or a reason that makes as much sense to me.
I could be this.
I could be that.
I could have this.
I could have that.
Do I need to know the reason?
Does the reason I am in this particular place
matter?
I could be here.
I could be somewhere else.
Like this.
Like that.
What does it matter?
What is the difference?
Am I not still me, myself;
who I am, the root heart of my existence,
whatever, wherever, however, whenever
it is.
Going On?
i thought i knew what love was.
leaving no stone unturned
the bamboo shadow sweeps
the court yard, with great ado
rousing not a single
mote of dust
it's always the "me"entity,
which needs to place a name
against the term "who"
if the ocean is all,
can a dew
drop ever drop
can there be
a dew drop,
as a dewdrop, at all?
I do no thing;
I go no where;
and yet,
action-less,
am I not
I feel this fits here - author unknown