Finding Yourself Where You Look

An impossible storm, an implosion of pressures leaking manifold from ten million million glazed-over eyes, an unfathomable sea of people rolling in the dark like waves, with self-inflicted lies emanating from their lips like salty ocean-foam froth—each wayward soul grasping, raising a looking glass to their floundering faces, free hand made unfree in a desperate bid to peel a mask that is simply not there. The voices cry: "Who am I? Who am I?!" The wretched unfoundlings cry: "Who has seen me?! Where can I be found?" Backwards they shuffle betwixt one another like sifting sands, never acknowledging the other, never acknowledging the fallen or the shards of their broken glasses littering the ground with blood that once was wine. Tell me, who amongst this pitiful crowd will be found? I pray for them to any self or unself that will listen. Beneath the fray, beneath the surface of the crowds of these weepy heads, just a short way, walks a child. He seems to glow, strolling beneath the shade of these nervous trees, searching for......nothing, minding not himself, wondering and wandering at his ease and leisure, hearing just the breeze sashaying through the leaves. Does he take up the burning glass? The blurry-eyed search for what never, could never,run away? Need I answer? Has it been lost to you, too, sister? Or are you content to run, to play, to seek beyond your own nose for the beautiful self of the world that calls to us all, that gives us all we need/ in loving exchange, in loving embrace? Are you content to let knowing fly, to let self swim, and to simply be?