I wake up to realize
it doesn’t matter what I say.
It doesn’t matter at all.

I am sitting in the living room
without a true care in the world.
Lots of false care, lots of forlorn hope;

none of it matters. None of it.
All of it is forlorn and nothing
is a true care. In a long run

of living, of life, I am still here
and that’s what matters. The sorrow
and the triumph all the same;

nothing matters at all. I just
don’t sit here involved in anything;
just sit, a blank look on my face,

an empty head on my stooped shoulders.
It’s almost a comfort to acknowledge it.
Almost makes it worthwhile.

The pure light of emptiness
lifts me up and holds me, transparent,
opposed to fullness.

I just said it: I am almost comforted
by knowing my emptiness, and soon
it will drain away completely.

And that’s a good thing. That is what I want.
The pure light of empty being.
The empty light, the light of being full

of not wanting any thing or thought.
I didn’t know it would be like this.
If I had, I never would have done otherwise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T