I've been out of sorts and under the weather. My head is as thick and foggy as the chill November air, a physical ailment turned to mental sluggishness. Feeling inspired but lacking motivation.
And it seems like everything I write comes back to the sense of whatever nevermind let me climb back under the thick warm blankets and sleep comes in fits and starts like a bucking horse with wild eyes and sweaty flanks.

I lost Monday and I suppose if ever a day should be lost it is Monday. It turned into fever dreams and liquid prose and disrupted equilibrium, reduced to a lump on the couch sipping hot chamomile tea. Ruminating Rumi I managed to find peace from all the bothersome heated debates, all the cosmopolitical psuedo-beliefs, the posturing, the retrospect, the dread. I've lost my energy, it has gone spiralling down, some fallen leaf tracing an intraceable pattern of chance, who can say who can say says the refrain. Nothing has changed. Oh but it shall, and oh but it will. I can't hear the thunder in the distance because of the muffling fog, the strangling fog.

Soul receives from soul that knowledge, therefore not by book
nor from tongue.
If knowledge of mysteries comes after emptiness of mind, that is
illumination of heart.


If you will be observant and vigilant, you will see at every moment the response to your action. Be observant if you would have a pure heart, for something is born to you in consequence of every action.