The affairs of humans, certainly — but not exclusively. The stars, the birds, the flowers, the wind. Mountains. Whales. Insects. Worms. Wild grains. These things are all to be considered, and each has something to say. A mountain range publishes glaciers and snowstorms, rivers and forests; it does so simply, reliably, and without bias — it tells the complete truth, and nothing but the truth. This is the claim of every human news source, yet not one is without its bias and self-perpetuating agenda. The ocean seeks not to influence, it tells — not just part of the story, but everything it knows. The sky. The moon. Why not avail ourselves of these universal sources? Why assume they have no special knowledge and insight? Why not consult the waterfall? Why not listen to the desert and the deer? Why rely on contemporary vain human gossip, when we have such balanced wealth to draw upon? The more so, because we are of these things, and are part of the stories they tell. Being human is like coming upon a mirage. Dive in, and you are sure to hurt your head. Stand back a bit, and see the spirit moving on the face of the waters.
August 18, 2020. Evening.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Consciousness, Diaries, Journals, Knowledge, Nature, The News, Truth, Vanity