What is it that makes the mind so interesting

Do you know your mind,

These words that float around,

Trying to find meaning,

Meaning in everything around?

The mind is a peculiar thing,

It is here and there,

It runs from one topic to the next,

It looks for anchor points,

And finds merely hunter lanes,

It is not here and not there,

it is the worlds of the universe,

The universe it calls home,

The universe it looks to protect,

And run with its thoughts.

But is it particularly good with that?

I doubt that,

I doubt it very strongly.

The universe,

It is not made of straight lines,

And circling directions,

It is not made of obsession,

And it is not made of perfect concepts.

No,

The universe is made of other things,

More natural things,

More beautiful things.

It is made of our soul,

Our intricate beautiful soul,

The soul of our own being,

Free of thought,

And free of stories.

There is nothing left,

But the being,

The one and only being,

Floating in the wider space,

Of time and soul and moments,

And there is nothing left,

As to say,

We are beings in the moment,

In the moment here and now,

And nowhere else than in the space,

Of you and me,

And our rhythm.

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…written August 2024, Manhattan, New York