Om

I love you. We said these words. I really want to say how I feel, yet I am not quite equipped with the know-how. Should I write sentences? My thoughts and feelings are half-mixed of sentences and poem-style.

What I know, what I know, do I know?
Would it ever make any difference if I told?

It seems so many people are trying to hold it inside, hold something inside,
but no one told them? I never needed to look.

One time, I found.
There wasn't something I found,
It was just that I had found.

It was strange. What we are looking for, what anyone who could ever possibly exist, whatever they could possibly search for; they would not look for it any longer if they knew they had found themselves.

But what did I find?
It was eyes of reality.

We are part of reality, aren't we?
So why do we write books about it?
Is it because we want to say, in as perfect as expression as possible, in the best way...
or is it in the longest way?--
that we are part of reality?
It isn't though, it isn't why, but we are.



Eyes; the part for seeing,
covered by filtering shutters,
they are the connection between soul and matter,
between this reality, and the higher reality,
from whence...