“These lies are told with your consent.”
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I was love or love became me, somehow 
in a kinetic spree of inertia and bound restitution 
I found the middle. 
"Why the middle," he asked, setting his glasses on the table, interested. Or at least pretending to be. "What’s in the middle?" My perception was that he was being authentic. I remember thinking that I didnt think that could be faked. 
She smiled taken momentarily by a hanging crystal now producing little fractals of color, of light and abundant precision, all over the wall and the television and the tables in their living room as the sun poured into their home and hit each sliver, just so. There is only a marginal window during the entire day that this occurs; in fact, she never caught it; and, yet, there it was. 
The journey to the middle is long, 
to the center of it all we see there is no center at all. The middle is now. At the middle of everything there is no space, no time. There is only one thought that isn’t even a thought. It breathes us, appearing and disappearing- a host of contradictions as it enters and exits at once, ambivalently. But it isn’t ambivalent. It’s nothing and everything, tied and forged in a unity of sound and geometric precision. A vibratory expression that breathes us, breathes through us. It is what we are. I am it and it is me.

Deciding everything is falling into place perfectly. As long as you dont get too picky about place, or perfectly.

He who looks will not see it;
He who listens will not hear it;
He who gropes will not grasp it.
The formless nonentity, the motionless source of motion.
The infinite essence of the spirit is the source of
Spirit is self.
Walls form and support a room,
yet the space between them is most important.
A pot is formed of clay,
yet the space formed therein is most useful.
Action is caused by the force of nothing on something,
just as the nothing of spirit is the source of all form.
One suffers great afflictions because one has a body.
Without a body what afflictions could one suffer?
When one cares more for the body than for his own
One becomes the body and looses the way of the spirit.
The self, the spirit, creates illusion.
The delusion of Man is that reality is not an illusion.
One who creates illusions and makes them more real than
reality, follows the path of the spirit and finds the
way of heaven

“Why do you love the stars so much?” he said, motioning her over to him. She stopped and walked over to the tailgate, resting herself in between his legs dangling down.

“I don’t know, really. They are just so far from here. It seems better, more graceful out there, somehow.”  

She laid down on the truck bed, and he put one hand under her head and the other across her stomach as she continued, “From here, one can easily assume that everything is calm, regardless of whether it actually is. Importantly, we imagine it is, and so it is,” she shrugged, “It could be. Everything could be something.” She closed her eyes, “Just tiny pin-drops of light: immutable and docile, neither ruffled nor destructive. Just resting. Just being.”

He looked over into her eyes to find them bleeding as the night air immortalized the droplets on her cheeks. “Isn’t it funny that when you are really happy and really sad, you do exactly the same thing?” His hand met her cheek, wiping a tear into oblivion.

“Love, we are meant to just be.” He mouthed, staring through her exoskeleton into her center. Not the neighborhood surrounding her heart. Not the suburbs, the outlying areas of sprawl, billboards and rapid growth. Not the high traffic areas that surround the city center. Not the familiar streets of her part of town.

Not even the slight curve in the road that says almost there.

He stared straight into the intimate, sacred space at the core of her soul—home. 

She smiled, watching his mouth move with an intensity she had never encountered until his. A potency she somehow knew she’d never, ever encounter again. At eighteen she shouldn’t have known such things. Except that she did.

She rested her head back flat on his arm to watch the stars once more. Wondering if she would remember in a day—a year—or even eleven, that particular minute. That ensemble of moments that in particular neuronal configuration would lodge into her brain and become a memory. And although she knew that it might all fall, like sand through a sieve, perhaps it only mattered that she hoped that that particular collection would not.

They fell asleep on his truck bed, with his arm around her and all of her worries tucked safely in his pocket. And in the morning, he woke her quickly to watch the rays’ warmth begin.

She looked over at him, again preoccupied with his mouth.

“No, love, watch the sun,” he said, looking over as it began to peak its head over the horizon and light found its way pouring over the earth. “It will all be over soon.”

 “So what do we do?” she asked, looking into him as if he were a wizard with answers to all the questions of the world.

 Taking her hand into his, he breathed, “Enjoy it.” 

Be it so and answer not
to the mourning morning
troubled triggers fretting about
wondering if we are good enough
For what?
For whom, rather?
It is ok to be.
We are meant to be.
Why is that dirty, unbecoming?
We are meant to just be: sitting in stillness isn’t laziness.
Your cells need that stillness, that silence, to absorb the air
Moments pass in heavy slumber spent amuck on heavy heart’s tinder.
Love in truth we see passed seeing.
What sight is there passed this. The now we have and hold is here, now.