What we scramble for comes only on its own

Contentment is a spirit, an always-present serene ghost.

To hold it captive provides the ultimate treasure,

But freedom is its only source of nourishment.

A mind must let it fly, dissolve in the atmosphere,

Let it come and go.

Allow it to cradle you, embrace the comfort, and accept the inevitable departure.


Welcome it back, expect nothing.


Feeling this is like ingesting warmth; swallowing honey-tinted tea while the steam still twists.

Or slipping below sea level, allowing the water to fill in every wrinkle of your skin while your

Body is suspended effortlessly.

A celebration of the great mysteries, a willingness to leave them unexplored,

To be content is to not know-

To dance in the driveway of possibility,

Live in the house of appreciation,

And recognize the neighbor of suggestion.

It is to know that the omniscient is not man.

Into your ear it whispers lullabies, preventing an uprise of cries.

Sheer spirit,

             come into focus,

                       lie upon an opaque surface,

                                     and bring light to humanity.


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