It is difficult to write when one has no frame of reference from which to speak. No map, no truth, nothing of which to be certain, no experience that connects to any other in any logical way. There is a distinct connection in every moment, but it is perplexingly self-referential, yet simulaneously all encompassing.
What else can I say? You had to be there? Except that there isn’t any “there” there. Maybe one day I’ll have something more to say, or maybe “I” will simply disappear into the Beautiful empty pages that emanate from the Heart.
What kind of work
Can I do in this world?Who would be kind enough
To hire an old holy Bum,One with a great reputation
For loving the charms
Of the lawless
And the wild artists and the lewd?Maybe I could become a poet.
Maybe the Beloved
Will make my love so PureThat He will come to sit upon
All my Beautiful empty pages.
And when you come to look at them,He might kick you
With His Beautiful Divine Foot.- Hafiz
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