The reason that it isn’t revealed outright is that reason is a blanket over fear.
Perception, a finer instrument, already knows.
The hidden does not own a sharp edge, but the hiding itself has the teeth,
the perjured grin waiting for a tempest to call for it that it may
revel in just conclusion, snapping at a wind already departing the lee.
Negative thought, welcome and goodbye. Mindful. Deliberate. Authentic.
Thank you Marcus and Zeno, although I have been hardly ideal or exhibited temperance in my appetite for consuming philosophy the past month,
Laozi, Sartre, Hume, Plotinus, Siddhartha… all the A-list thinkers.
Today, I favor the stoics in practice, the existentialists in foundation. I have only viewed the highlight reels, read the cliff notes.
Mindfulness seems to spring naturally from the wells of insight and inconsistency. Timeless and dated simultaneously.
The same song breathes again, in through the nose and out through the mouth with every bruise-raising kick on the bag.
Or, I oddly long to feel that, but not now. Lately, it’s the bag, the sweat, all new, somehow. Fresh, coming in from somewhere keen and blazing. An unshakable indifference to all familiar and stale stimuli whose edges have been blunted and sanded smooth, except the…
Whap, shuffle, whap, whap, umph.
My arms, my time, my life, more.