life like light flashes on carpet
spinning so quickly,
complaining of stillness
we see simple movement as stagnation
and call for speed
to dull the pains of growing.
what does it mean to live truly
to embrace the world
alone being true to oneself?
to recognize beauty in ourselves:
behind us, before us, in us
spreading us thin and swallowing us?
what we want is undefinable
no one can explain their heart
the brain follows like a dog
the cyclical paths laid before us
we dig deeper to discover the truth
and uncover the child, the irrational.
we move onward, then,
stagnant in our simplicity
ignoring the gnawing on our ice-hearts;
dogs with goals and timetables and physics
until we come around again
the rough carpet, the spinning world
cyclical thinking comes to cyclical living
what do we know now that is so much more?
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