foreword

One blessed with intellect is surely cursed

The mundanity of life does not escape us

We find beauty in what we do not understand

We take shelter in that which we do

We yearn for a place in a society that does not know us

. . .

My depths cannot be seen

There is no land in sight

There is only an endless expanse

That which I am

A lake does not crave a shore

For one is always in sight

But i am an ocean

There are no bounds to which I abide

.

I am left drifting

Land is but a memory

I have no border to claim

The quiet unknown is my home

.

A ship only docks momentarily

Long enough to ponder but not long enough to stay

Collecting tokens of the pilgrimage

Never finding the journey’s end

.

My seas urge the ship to port

But a change of tide draws it out again

I do not find peace on the shore

Nor is it found in the abyss

.

Always changing are my waves

High and low there is no constant

Unceasing is my uncertainty

In that I am steadfast

.

My tempests are fierce

Rain slashes and winds wail

Reflections of the turmoil beneath the surface

An attempt to illuminate my struggle

.

But storms are not pleasant

And the cause is not seen

The damage consumes

And leaves a bitter remnant

But the tide always returns

White sands hide my temper

Forgotten are my irritable ways

Beauty once more emerges

. . .