We are not our thoughts, our own mind
Or the life we made; the intersection of time
We are not the lottery of birth
The ranks among men; the torture of the towns
No; we are something else…
Further from the cities of holograms and projections
Where a drop of sacredness changes everything
Like a dissolution of all the cravings
Where we turn invisible to the old way of things
We are not the actors and the roles
Not the sacrifices we thought we had to make
We are not the life scripts and labor and duty
We are the heart broken and made whole again
We are the cosmic patterns that sowed in us
Miracles and wonders that had little to do with us
Those things that put you beyond beliefs
Those events that change all further moments
Where the self is no longer just a self
And our work is no longer just a selfish thing
There we find remnants of who were before the fall
Before a sort of dumb materialism and capitalism
Those idols that destroyed us on the inside
Worry is itself the idleness of loving not enough
We mustn’t complain for the secret choice we made
But find fruit in the ordinary and nectar
Also in the suffering; that is our way of life
Our habit of doing and repeating
What we ourselves expect us to do; the designs
We follow irrespective of the outcomes
We are all brief experiments in a violent seeing
Where there is not time to be; but rush like an art in pain.
Wuji Seshat 