Not, what we are

If my feet are running brashly into the unwieldy desire of the ego but they advance with natural grace, then let them prance. If the mind is quick to follow, yet obtuse in intention, alight the pursuit. For the feet may go but the mind must be trusting in the unfolding, as it has - as it is - as it will be. To be after that which is after us is the only momentum to sweep ourselves into, standing afebrile in the burning torment of demands and expectancies. Patiently surveying is painting your breathy spirit into hostile interpretations and sorrowful disappointments. Hastily we condemn our failures, our rejections. We become the objects we regularly use to describe that which truly cannot be ascribed about us. I am not my nose or that noise of the noose we used to suffocate the peace that was promised for our partnership. So when exhaustion eclipsed the feet's feat, we realize we are no closer to that ego want and now again the need is for the mind's meed, to once again condone finding meaning wherever you be, whatever has you captive. After that which is after you, even when you hide. After that which is after you, even when you chide the concept of it and feel beguiled by that guide we call blemishless, blameless and blessed.

Breathe life into your dry intellect and find wisdom, sprouting from your soul. Breathe life into your affection and find love, germinating in that area you also called barren. Breathe life into your ways and find freedom, that recompense for the perserverance you placed in that karmic wheel. Good is done to you - invariably - the recognition atop of the print you call victimhood. When we are wronged, it is doubly done when we let it lynch our free will of peaceful offerings. We are not that which was done to us.