Lament the human being; the worthlessness, the waste, the futility. Only quiet will suffice. Only silent solitude is magnificent.
What a difficult time I have achieving peace in solitary confinement. I feel my fears and the judgment of the world. What good am I alone in a spiritual cocoon with spiritual texts and meditation? What good is it really that my professional work is praised?
My soul is forlorn, like a leaf blowing along a sidewalk, underneath the ego's punishing attacks. My soul is eager, like the first song bird to awaken the morning. Sometimes my soul is a wet cool fog; or sometimes an unseen humid swelter.
I run down a road in pre-dawn darkness under a full moon. My identity is lost in my unseen passing. A ghost of a woman, I am the soul's sleight of hand.
Running expresses what cannot be explained.