enter the hero

to sit still and watch birds on trees is akin to sitting still and allowing the original brushstrokes of intelligence hidden by refuse to be illuminated.


birds, the sometimes-silent sometimes-singing watchers and doers of Earth, are life's constants, your relative minutiae of infinitude as projected into the external.

wind, sometimes-invisible sometimes-suggested-by-tree-branch-movements, is the unchanging universe.


so often do i find myself torn between something like two possible worlds.

much less often do i allow this opposition to combine as nothingness.

life is so vast, it carries the opposite in itself osho (1930-90)

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