Hands of Fate

Wee hours of the morning.

Just going with it. I’m up now, might as well write what I feel. Pitch blackness outside and nobody’s awake now. I wrote a poem. Turned out pretty good. I might change the title. It’s about the poet’s intuition, almost a statement of mysticism. The poet grasps truth directly and not from anything intermediate. This will be my new credo. Sure, it exalts the poet, but in a way, everyone is a poet. Everyone who dreams is a visionary. What is it about the sky, the sun, moon, and the stars? What can the heavens tell us about life? I guess everything we see is a mirror of ourselves, so that the truth is always interior. It is dream. I ought to read The Inner Reaches of Outer Space. Joseph Campbell is beautiful. His writing has a flow of eloquence to it similar to Emerson. I think it’s because both of them were steeped in the East, particularly Hinduism, that they were so articulate and poetic.

I don’t know what to do with this time. There’s a chimichanga in the freezer I could eat. To a certain extent I am still free. My parents ruled my life with an iron fist, and I’m rebelling against their ghosts. They weren’t very smart, and they weren’t very good at raising kids. At this moment I am resting potential. In another moment I may be eating or back in bed.

Quarter of eight. Well now I know of a real case of the coronavirus. My heart is penitent because it happened to a young poet. She says she is recovered, so I hope she feels better… Time to go to the store in a few minutes. Aesop needs dry food and treats. I’ll make an effort to be more serene and accepting of what I can’t control. Music may or may not come to fruition. This will have to be okay. It is out of my hands.


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