Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Even the moon, in its pale brilliance, hangs distant in the night, a beacon for all those who have ever reached out and found only the cool, indifferent void between them. It watches silently as we spin, caught between the fragile hope that one day we might touch the unreachable and the bitter wisdom that our longing is bound to remain unfulfilled. There’s a strange kind of beauty in this distance, an unspoken harmony between the ache of yearning and the starkness of reality. And perhaps it is in this gap, between desire and the understanding that it may never be met, that the truest part of us is revealed. In this silence, we learn not only the shape of our dreams but the contours of our limitations. The moon, too, is a mirror of sorts—reflecting not what we have, but what we wish we could become, the version of ourselves that is somehow both close and unreachable. I think about vulnerability in these moments. How we stretch, reaching outward, hoping someone or something will bridg...

"Hollow Life" Beating the fall I can’t help but desire of falling down this time Deep in this hole of my making I can't escape Falling all this time We come to this place Falling through time  Living a hollow life Always we're taking Waiting for signs Hollow lives... Fearing to fall and  Still the ground below me calls Falling down this time Ripping apart all  These things I have tried to stop Falling all this time Is there ever any wonder why we look to the sky? Search in vain? Asking why? All alone? Where is God? Looking down? We don’t know? We fall in space,  We can't look down, Death may come  Peace I have found What to say?  Am I alive,  Am I asleep?  Or have I died? (Wanting Peace) We fall in space (Wanting Peace) We can't look down, Death may come, (Something takes a hold of me) Peace I have found  (Something takes a hold of me) I want ...

In the realm of the egoist's mind, A tale unfolds, both cruel and unkind. He sought to make all his own domain, To see the world as but an extension of his vain. In his imagination, he turned all to self, No taste for others, no joy to delve. The capacity for good, now lost in the haze, His ego consumed him in a selfish blaze. But as death claimed him, the final call, No longer tethered to this earthly sprawl. He got his wish, to be solely confined, To lie in the self, to explore what he'd find. And what he found there, a bleak abyss, A Hell of his own making, an eternal hiss. No connections remained, no touch with the real, In his self-made prison, he began to feel. No longer could he revel in the joys of the other, No longer could he share, love, or discover. The egoist's plight, a tragic descent, To be trapped forever in his self-content. For life's true beauty lies in the shared, In the capacity to love, to be aware. But he, in his ego, severed those ties, And now i...