Death is But One State Humans Fail to Understand

Throughout each of Zhuangzi's passages, one can find the theme of life as is. It resonates voices that work on understanding and embracing life, as well as accepting that which is left unknown. The tone of each passage is direct as it is blunt, yet indirect in that it feels lighthearted. These passages act as parables; they are not upsetting tales.

Questions​ ​for​ ​Dreamers,​ ​Unanswerable​ ​by​ ​All

Part​ ​One,​ ​Inspired​ ​by​ ​Passage​ ​2

1.  If the enjoyment of life is a delusion, then are we miserable in truth?

2.  Are those ever-attempting to achieve happiness damned to lives of unrelievable pain?

Impulse

I

Uncontrollable thoughts,

twisted through dreams,

impossible to scrape

from the crevices

of a multilayered mind

Life Is a Multitude of Exhausting Perspectives

The secret to survival is finding conceivable reasons to continue on. We've come up with so many of them: schedules, jobs, religion, familial obligations - each of these intended to be grounding in their own way.

Yet, is surviving equivalent to a life worth living? Just as some may say that living is incomparable to existing, I argue there is a difference between the two.

So if there is a difference, then how can we begin to define life? Should we define existing as a means of keeping on, and surviving as a means of enabling ourselves to stay strong, then how on earth can we begin to perceive the center of it all?

Simply enough, I have found that life is best viewed from a multitude of equally exhausting perspectives.

In The Moment: An Expression of Acceptance

When thinking of contentment, I realize how far I have come, though part of me screams: I have a long way to go. This is how it is for me. Ambition does not parallel discontent, but the line distinguishing the two is easily blurred.

Failing to appreciate progress,

leads to the escalation of goals into needs,

which then become benchmarks for self worth.

I think, and I think, until I think too much.

Writing Without Words

How do I begin to write poetry, when I’m far from the brink of despair?

Do I string words like lights at Christmas time, wrapping them across my body and around my neck,

until I choke out some semblance of meaning?

First Regrets

I was young.
We were dumb.
That’s usually how the story unfolds.

In our case,
you were new to me.
And in a way, I was new to you,
we were lonely and craving each other.

My Black is Black Enough

author of the messy life

Reflecting on my journey to self-acceptance

I refuse to entertain our over-reliance on labels.

While I understand their capacity to consolidate and convey meaning, labels allow for unwarranted assumptions.

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