To This


i was watching the smoke from a stick of nag champa swirling in the light
directly neath the lampshade just now, and realizing that i can’t really see
it, can’t really feel it, not as it is, not with the attention and empty
focus that it requires, just like i can’t really appreciate the almost
imperceptible yet ever present iridescence of the snow covering everything
in the winter sun rise, the shimmering in the sky, in the air. it’s there,
and i notice it, and i look straight at it and yet all i can see and feel
are the things that bind me to my circumstances–work, or the latest love
interest, or my fucking ego getting in the way of everything that is good in
my life. i want to feel and appreciate all of the beauty that is all around
me, but i can’t get past myself. here i am, sitting in my den, looking at
the incense swirling, and yet it’s all just an act, all a pretense–and i
think, how can i get to that space where i can really feel it? or is it
impossible? but it seems like it can happen, in a different world, a world
where you don’t have to work a shitty job where they treat you like a dumb
animal, in a world where you don’t have to wonder if what love you feel from
another human being is really something that means something, in a world
where you aren’t always using other people in order to survive. i want to
be there, but i know that there is no shortcut there, and i know that it’s a
long road to where i need to be, that’s it’s such a long, long road, just to
get to here, just to get to now, just to get to where i am, to where i
really am.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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