The lightest realizations arrive in restraint—
so the old masters tell us.
Not unlike the tug at the end of a line.
We have language for what is within reach
but not the mutable form behind it.
Or else, why write.
I’m sick of peering at the ego.
No, my ego’s tired of peering at me—
It’s she who awakens me into being.
So it goes: the seer mistaken for the seen.
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