I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.
To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward.
A lively understandable spirit Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait.
Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?
The self says, I am; The heart says, I am less; The spirit says, you are Nothing.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?