Om

Love is waiting.
Love is trust.
For her, there is no doubt,
Only love.
In her, I mean, there is no doubt,
Only love.
In me, that is, in her, there is no doubt,
Only love.

Let me start this over-
No doubt.
Only love.

Emerson wrote in his journal,
"This smells sweet, because of the goodness in life,
Or because of virtue."

Lately I've been more deeply aware of sensations,
A breath and a smell mean more than just their scent,
A familiar scent sweeps everything away,
Something sweet to lose my existence in,
Something to make life bearable for the wait.

Thankful, and grateful for being alive,
I focus on-- what do I focus on? I seem insane.
Why do I obsess with this one nasty comment?
Perhaps because it's so impossible- words could never turn them around.
And it's not that I don't respect them-- quite the opposite.
It just seems they hate me.
I have respect, perhaps that is my problem, for if I love and respect someone who hates me,
perhaps it will destroy me.
And the worst thing is,
isn't it insulting to all of my dearly beloved friends,
That one word of spite replaces years of friendship in my mind?

The sadness of having opened your soul.

But let me leave it now, and leave it forever.
Back to yoga and back to transcendental consciousness.

Back to the [I]common dream[/I] of [I]reality[/I].
Nightly doses of sleep.
Daily doses of waking dream.
Lucid dream.
Tired dream.

So this is my life's value at 19.
A dreamer, with infinitely beautiful dreams,
But yet barely grasping the truth I know.
Rather, not at all.
Unable to communicate an iota of it.
Although I've found, I believe, one kindred soul.
And another who loves me for all I'm worth.

To be lost in love, this is what I shall be.
It is why there is no doubt, though as for that,
The reasons can't be said in words,
But only in a symphony,
Where we are not so angry,
At short, meaningless phrases.

I miss her. There are like a hundred worlds.
This dream is beautiful enough for me.
Still, to spend some time in eternity,
will be nice.