Wednesday, January 3, 2018


Laying on my back
Lights are off
Tchaikovski is playing
For, it is the least disturbing music
That can mask the noise around me
I am trying to detach
To stop the train of thoughts
That is buzzing at a speed
Faster than the speed of light

Good luck Kabuli,
Or whatever your name is.
I hear telling myself.
Relaxation is not in your destiny.
Leave enlightenment to others.

My foot is itching
So does the back of my ears.
A backache comes from nowhere
And that ibuprofen I took
For a headache or a migraine
Said thank you for swallowing
But now leave me alone

I laugh at myself
How naive and helpless I am.
Got to be strong to meditate
To detach and to forget,

Wait, what is that?
Who is talking?
A soundless voice
In the back of my head.
Your voice? My voice?
His voice? Who cares?
Voices don't discriminate.
It is for no one in particular
You hear soundless voices
When you lose sense of self
When you don't have an ego.
That particular blade of grass
Thinks the rain started pouring
Just for him, because of him.
The rain laughs
And never says you are wrong
While continues pouring,
Soundless Voice
Like the voice of conscience
Could be signs of illumination.
The ones with the sound,
That you can hear
And no one else
Are definitely signs of schizophrenia
So I put those fluid voices
Inside the  molding containers
To cool them down
To make them solid
And there it is.
They take forms
Recognizable forms
The form of words,
Now I understand what is it saying.
" Rise above yourself
Look at you as you look at someone else"
But how I say
That is crazy, how do I look at myself
Like it is someone else?
" Not a first" I hear.
Like that globe
The three-dimensional globe
Appearing and disappearing
From two dimensional flatland
Or that tesseract, the hypercube
In " A Wrinkle in Time".
I laugh and say no problem
Travel between dimensions
Was always my strongest skill, Not!
I don't give up.
I can do it, I can do it.
I am an observer,
I am me, I am you, I am us
The universe itself.
A smile on my face
Looking down
Or what earthly people call "down"
Oh, there is a guy,
Laying on a bed
A bed that I stupidly called my bed
A moment ago
I can see his foot is itching
So is the back of his ears.
He has a headache
Four Ibuprofen is his stomach
That does nothing but dissolve.
I smile at him
I remember him writing this poem
Which is our poem now,
A headache, backache, itching?
Not a good thing, not a bad thing
They are things
They are what they are.
And I move to the next scenery.

January 3rd, 2018
Heaven on Earth, Seattle

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