In the darkness of the night, only occasionally relieved by glimpses of
Nirvana as seen through other people's windows, wallowing in a morass of
Self-despair made only more painful by the knowledge that all I am is of my
Own making. When everything around me, even the kitchen ceiling, has
Collapsed and crumbled without warning. And I am left, standing in the eye
Of a well looking up and wondering why and wherefore. At a time like this,
Which exists maybe only for me, but is nonetheless real, if I could
Communicate, and in the telling and the bearing of my soul anything is
Gained, even though the words which I use are pretentious and make you
Cringe with embarrassment, let me remind you of the pilgrim who asked for
An audience with the Dalai Lama. He was told he must first spend five
Years (in) contemplation. After the five years, he was ushered into the
Dalai Lama's presence, who said, Well, my son, what do you wish to know?
So the pilgrim said, I wish to know the meaning of life, father. And so
The Dalai Lama smiled and said, Well my son, life is like a beanstalk,
Isn't it?

Held close by that which some despise
Which some call fate, and others lies
And somewhat small for one so tall
A doubting Thomas? Who would be?
It's written plain for all to see
For one who I am with no more
It's hard at times, it's awful wrong

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