Definitions are indefinite.
We are what we are when we cease paying attention
To who we could become.
Being is a process,
Ever dynamic, never static;
The moment you look within
You defeat the purpose of it all.
The purpose of finding yourself,
Of coming into your own,
Of being the picture in your head.
I'll never be that portrait.
I'll never have such finely demarcated borders.
I'll be as we all are;
An infinite abyss;
Only actualized in self-forgetfullness.
We are not made.
We are discovered.
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I was thinking "Oh Jesus a poem I hate reading other people's poems." Then I read it and liked it.
ReplyDeleteHaha thanks Dylan...I think.
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