ancient poets

Sappho is a famous ancient Greek poet from the island of Lesbos around 615 BCE. She is one of few known women poets from such old times. She wrote passionate poems about the bittersweet struggles of being in love - most famously, with both sexes. She ran an academy for young, unmarried women, who were her circle of friends. The word lesbian comes from the island of her birth, and her name is the origin of the word sapphic. Neither word was used for homosexuality until the 19th century. Since then, Sappho has been attacked and ridiculed for her sexual preferences, and her reception is a huge part of her historical significance.

It’s like a woman has to be either gay or straight no matter what. She might be engaged to a woman but have an affair with a man so people will automatically be like “so is she a lesbian or straight??” Even in the LGBTQ community, the B in there is like it doesn’t exist at all.
You know how the famous Ancient Greek poet and lyre musician Sappho is seen as having a romantic relationship with her female pupils but in her poems she expresses her love for a man and people do not know whether she’s a complete lesbian or not and it’s like everyone has heard of the word bisexual but no one gives enough of a shit to even consider it to be real.
Even fucking Piper Chapman from orange is the new black, the only labels she receives is being either a lesbian or a heterosexual character. She is in love with both a woman and a man but she’s not bisexual?? She just HAS to be either a lesbian or straight as though the spectrum is as simple as that, oh good lord stop with this bullshit

did u guys kno that back in ancient rome the poet Catullus was in a relationship with this lady named Clodia but she was married so he had to refer to her as Lesbia in all his poetry, but the reason he called her Lesbia is because Sappho and all her students lived on the island Lesbos and they were so great at poetry that calling her Lesbia was the highest complement he could give. so basically he called his gf a lesbian because he decided it’s the best compliment you could possibly give someone

The twins stand before me,
Radiant, too bright for the same sky,
One with a mahogany bow and
A wild look in her eyes, one with
A golden lyre and a seductive grin.

Choose me
Apollo whispers in my ear.
Choose gold and daylight and love,
Art and bliss. Choose knowledge
Of all that has been and will be.
You know you want to.

Choose me
Artemis boldly declares.
Choose silver and moonlight and freedom,
Wildness and the hunt. Choose sisterhood
And be a legend for all time.
I already found you your bow.

I choose myself
I say, holding my breath.
Your offers of love are illusions.
You would cast me aside the instant
I swerved from your ideal.
I will find my own path.


The Twins

- Grace Babcock © 2017

ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλέπαν δὲ λῦσον
ἐκ μερίμναν, ὄσσα δέ μοι τέλεσσαι
θῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον, σὺ δ᾽ αὔτα 
σύμμαχος ἔσσο.

Ψάπφω (Sappho), fragment 1 (“Hymn to Aphrodite”), lines 25-28

“Come to me even now, and release me from difficult cares, and as many things as I desire in my heart for you to accomplish, accomplish, and be yourself my ally.” 

Publius Ovidius Naso (20 March 43 BC – AD 17/18)

Known as Ovid in the English-speaking world, he was a Roman poet who lived during the reign of Augustus. He was a contemporary of the older Virgil and Horace, with whom he is often ranked as one of the three canonical poets of Latin literature. The Imperial scholar Quintilian considered him the last of the Latin love elegists. He enjoyed enormous popularity, but, in one of the mysteries of literary history, was sent by Augustus into exile in a remote province on the Black Sea, where he remained until his death. Ovid himself attributes his exile to carmen et error, “a poem and a mistake”, but his discretion in discussing the causes has resulted in much speculation among scholars.

The first major Roman poet to begin his career during the reign of Augustus, Ovid is today best known for the Metamorphoses, a 15-book continuous mythological narrative written in the meter of epic, and for works in elegiac couplets such as Ars Amatoria (“The Art of Love”) and Fasti. His poetry was much imitated during Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, and greatly influenced Western art and literature. The Metamorphoses remains one of the most important sources of classical mythology. (Wikipedia)

From our stacks: Cover detail from Publii Ovidii Nasonis Fastorum Libri Sex. The Fasti of Ovid. Edited with a translation and commentary by Sir James George Frazer. In Five Volumes. London: Macmillan and Co., Limited, 1929.


i trusted you.

i took a run and jumped, as i
believed you were down there,
waiting for me with your arms
wide open and your heart even more.

you weren’t.

instead of feather-like floating,
i were marble ancient statue,
forgotten and being released
in the middle of vast ocean.

i slowly started to sink, watching
how you became just a blurr.


you said you loved me
from the bottom of your heart;
when i reached it myself,
there was only mud and complete
absence of the light of your eyes.

don’t worry, i got used to
that darkness after a while.

when century passes i may become
the most precious treasure under the sun.

but for now,
i’m just an embryo,

spilled out
of your body
too soon.

Grandfather tells of better days to come
It’s only hope we hold and ends to rope
No one says; my aunts hustle and I bring broth
And my mom bleeds and bleeds

The festival comes, the dancing begins
My mom should play the tambourine
She wears bangles and a sparkling nose ring
She sings prophecy, misted with danced dirt
And the outsiders hunger for her words

For we don’t envy you
We understand
The grandness of life you’ve sacrificed

My mom wants to continue, and her words
Shrivel sweetly like figs; they’re just for me
And I can’t repeat what she said that day


  • Butters: Wtf is Sephora it sounds scary.
  • Kevin: isn’t that the guy with the long white hair from final fantasy?
  • Gary: no your thinking of sephiroth, a sephora is an angel belonging to the highest order of angels
  • Damien: No you’re thinking of a Seraph. A sephora is a second year college or high school student
  • Token: No, you’re thinking of sophomore. A sephora is when you use your phone to take a picture of yourself.
  • Tweek: no, you’re thinking of a selfie. a sephora is a calm breeze.
  • Craig: No, you’re thinking of a zephyr. A sephora is one of those Greek vases with the two handles and the pictures.
  • Clyde: You’re thinking of an amphora. Sephora is the web browser you have to use on iOS devices.
  • Kyle: You’re thinking of Safari. Sephora is an informal term for the seven-week period of counting the days between Pesach and Shavuot in the Jewish calendar.
  • Ike: You’re thinking of Sefiras. Sephora is a bright blue gemstone best known for combining with Ruby to create Garnet and lead the Crystal Gems, training Pokemon, and/or assisting Steel to fight against time’s intrusions into our realm.
  • Stan: No, you’re thinking of sapphire. Sephora is actually a part of a flower; it protects the flower in bud and supports the petals in bloom.
  • Cartman: No, you’re thinking of sepal. Sephora is the wife of Moses, who lead the stupid Jews out of Egypt fucking bitch.
  • Kenny: No, you’re thinking of Tzipporah. Sephora was an ancient Greek poet who inspired a lot of lady-lovin’.
  • Jimmy: No, you’re thinking of Sappho. Sephora is the youngest of the five Marx brothers.
  • Pete: No, you’re thinking of Zeppo. Sephora is the Heimdall’s sister.
  • Michael: No no no guys, you’re thinking of Sif. Sephora is a venereal disease that turns your brain to swiss cheese, going so far as to destroy external features like the nose. Famous gangster Al Capone suffered from sephora.
  • Bradley: No, you’re thinking of syphilis. Sephora is that radiant feeling you get when you have found perfect peace and happiness.
  • Wendy: No, you’re thinking of euphoria. Sephora’s a fucking makeup store you dipshits.
  • All boys: .....oh!!!!!!
The Queen of Egypt

Last night the sky was dull and dark.
I wished upon a lonely star.
I whispered, “Let me be a queen,”
A capering half-hearted dream.

But when I woke the air was strange.
This had to be a pinch-skin game.
I wiped my sand encrusted eyes,
Admiring my golden guise.

My jaw dropped at the sculptured walls.
The details spiralled down the hall.
Embellished doors released a view
From which a roaring echo grew.

A silhouette beneath the frame
Then spoke, “They’re calling out your name.”
My heart was quickly pulsating.
“My Queen, your kingdom is waiting.”

I stepped onto the balcony,
Just peering over anxiously ,
High overhead the chanting crowd,
And nervously, I took a bow.

I stuttered, staring at the sky
While beads of sweat rolled down my spine,
“H-h-hello?” The empire hushed.
“Together, we will rise like the sun!”

Quickly I began to cower,
Thinking of this new found power,
As I gazed down at their heads,
Their eyes so eager to be led.

“We will not need to move mountains!”
I shouted, “We will build them!
A statue for each victory,
And if we go down, it’s in history!”

I pumped my fist and loudly roared,
A feeling I felt not before.
A thousand men joined me that night,
With a million stars in sight.

I’m a couple of books into Civil War (Lucan, not Julius Caesar), and what strikes me is how it’s this savage howl of grief and desperation; how the point he keeps coming back to is we did this to ourselves.  There are so many people out there who hate us and could have conquered us!! so many people we could have conquered if we weren’t satisfied!!  but no, no, we made ourselves into slaves.  The rapacious, bloodthirsty wolfpack destroyed itself in its own unbearable hunger.

While the introduction to my copy really has it in for the Aeneid (it’s an amazing poem, and far more than just the Augustan propaganda this likes to claim), I do agree that Lucan is reacting against both Virgil and Ovid, and specifically the ways in which they try to process the change from Republic to Empire.  Virgil tries to comfort by insisting this is right, this is the will of the gods; but for Lucan that’s only possible if you think of the gods as punishing the Romans for their hubris, for becoming greater than they should be, and that’s why Civil War has such a tragic emphasis on Fate and Fortune. (because it is a tragedy–two thousand years and I’m still not over it, will never be over it; that a people for whom liberty ran blood and bone-deep wound up as imperial subjects.)  There’s also something Herodotean about it - its sense of enquiry, the way in which it cuts out portrayals of e.g. Jupiter and Apollo etc, and its fascination with the reasons behind the growth and decline of civilisations.

Of course, the Romans, like so many ancients, worried that luxury was the reason for decline, that it had made them soft.  That, I think, is part of why the portrayal of religion here, the invocation of the gods for protection, is all about going back to their oldest roots, to the hardy people who threw out the kings; and why Cato is the hero of this poem.  (though personally I love the Romans for their sophisticated, sensuous, warmhearted, pleasure-loving side, and the dour Early Republic has no appeal for me.  There’s a bit in this poem where Marcia remarries Cato, having been given by him to the late Hortensius as a wife because they knew she could bear children, and I can’t imagine such stern, selfless virtue that you could give away your own wife?! that’s not even getting into what Marcia’s feelings must have been on the matter.)

While this isn’t a pleasure to read in the way that the Aeneid or Metamorphoses is, it hits you like a Fury’s torch.  I love how gothic it is, with its Thessalian witches and its necromancy (it does the epic katabasis in REVERSE I am SCREAMING) and would really like to know what about Neronian Rome specifically seems to have produced literature like that. (cf. Seneca’s revenge tragedies - though of course he was Lucan’s uncle!)


From the underworld, she came

On the shoulders of Osiris.

Through the layers of hell and flame,

Her fate scrawled on the charred papyrus.

She was clothed in gems and golden skin,

her lined eyes were black and starry

Destined to win through seduction and sin,

she became Queen Nefertari. 


The Time Traveler

I met her in the early morning by chance

When the sun was still not awake.

She looked over the ruins of ancient stones

Breathing as if it was the last breath she’d take

I timidly sat beside her to see what she saw

Carefully and softly with the moves I’d make

Trying not to disturb her silent meditation

I put my hand on hers with no hesitation.

With one touch of our hands

I felt the entire world slip away

I closed my eyes and suddenly I could see

She saw the world of tomorrow and yesterday

But she did not pause for what would come and had come to pass

Everything not in this moment began to fade

My hand on hers; her hand in mine

She was breathing for this one moment in time.

When my hand finally lifted from hers and I opened my eyes

I was not where I once had been.

I was no longer among the ruins of stones

But I was glancing at the greatness of man.

I watched as the ruins came to life

As they died and came to life again.

Time did not stop as history pressed on

Before my next breath the moment was gone.

I reached for her hand to bring me back

But I was alone on this journey through time.

I doubted she was ever with me at all

Was she the dream in my own mind?

Now alone, I’m lost in the infinity of time

Is the present so hard to find?

I take another breath and I close my eyes once again

To imagine the ruins where this all began.

I did not meet her in the early morning by chance

Before the sun was awake.

I was alone in the ruins this time

Perhaps for her I will wait.

© 2007

It was curse at first
You told me you were
Only you’ve died past six
I have tried to save
But who was I to save
You were in a serene
In deep water that you were drowning and
no one was saving
You were too blind to see the Pyramids that
were graving

You don’t know what happiness
Dark, dangerous, over the edge, yet
sensuous and pleasing
Maybe my passion was too
Maybe my darkness was too
I wish it was your eyes I fell in
love with
I could blind myself and get
over it
But I fell in love with your soul
And my deep infatuation was too much
for the simple man you are

- Hira

I saw sorrows obscuring sorrows just as one line is written over another on a paper.
—  Abul ʿAla Al-Maʿarri  (973 -1058) - was a blind Syrian philosopher, poet, and writer. He was a controversial rationalist of his time, attacking the dogmas of religion. He was equally sarcastic towards the religions of Muslims, Jews, and Christians. He was also a vegan who argued for animal rights.
Heart, my heart, so battered with misfortune far beyond your strength, up, and face the men who hate us. Bare your chest to the assault of the enemy, and fight them off. Stand fast among the beamlike spears. Give no ground; and if you beat them, do not brag in open show, nor, if they beat you, run home and lie down on your bed and cry. Keep some measure in the joy you take in luck, and the degree you give way to sorrow. All our life is up-and-down like this.

Archilochus (trans. R. Lattimore)

anonymous asked:

Any advice for someone who's god has left them? (Due to said persons own stupidity and stubbornness)

First, I’m terribly sorry you feel you’ve been left. That’s a really shitty thing to have to feel, whether from a human or otherwise. Second, sometimes, what feels to us like leaving may sometimes be when we’re being given room to work through things on our own terms, rather than having them to refer to.

I don’t know what your situation is, though it sounds like you’re blaming yourself. I could say definitively that it isn’t your fault, but that may be somewhat  disingenuous so, instead, let’s acknowledge the fact that gods aren’t like us, shall we? After all, if they were like us, what would the difference be? We might as well be gods, mightn’t we?

Sure, many stories and sacred texts tell tales of the gods acting in ways we recognize as humans, but that doesn’t change what they are. They’re still gods, are they not? Even if they might once have been human, as is the case in some traditions, now they’re not.

A god is a god, even if you’re not sure what a god is  It’s that difference, that sacredness which trips something in the human mind makes you go Bugger me, that’s a god, that is!

sacred (adj.) late 14c., past participle adjective from obsolete verb sacren “to make holy” (c. 1200), from Old French sacrer “consecrate, anoint, dedicate” (12c.) or directly from Latin sacrare “to make sacred, consecrate; hold sacred; immortalize; set apart, dedicate,” from sacer (genitive sacri) “sacred, dedicated, holy, accursed,” from Old Latin saceres, from PIE root *sak- “to sanctify.” Buck groups it with Oscan sakrim, Umbrian sacra and calls it “a distinctive Italic group, without any clear outside connections.” Related: Sacredness. 

See that the quote above includes accursed?  That which gods do is, to quote a certain German philosopher Beyond good and evil.  Sure, gods can do things which might offend common morality, but that doesn’t make it good or evil in an absolute sense. It just makes it a thing a god does. Hell, I’m an Odinsman and my god baldly introduces himself as Bolverk, which translates as: worker/doer of   harm, injury, ruin, evil, mischief, wickedness.

Does what it says on the tin, right? To human morality, killing nine thralls, tricking people, obtaining things by deception, are not OK. Yet here’s Odin, tipping his hat and giving us the proverbial wink.

Why this crash-course. this reminder of the ambiguous that comes with practical theology?

Because each god has an individual character, because they are persons and not people. You believe your god has left you? I assume you mean that you can’t/haven’t felt their presence? Or maybe they’ve told you goodbye?

I don’t know. I don’t know who you are, either. Shall I tell you what I do know? 

I know you’re not the first to behave stupidly. You’re not the first to behave stubbornly. You’re not the first person to have felt their god have left them. Even Christians have a name for it - The Dark Night of the Soul.

Do you think that, in the course of an immortal being’s existence, you are the first one to fuck things up? Do you think a being who’s lasted generation after generation actually picked just you to walk away from, completely and utterly?

Nah. They’ve done it before, right? They have to have, otherwise, frankly, you’re disturbingly special. Are you, the one who behaved stupidly, and stubbornly, that special? Are you something and someone so special that, in another age, they’d compose a poem, an epic tale - The Saga of Anon the Stubbornly Stupid?

Think about it, seriously.

Because if you’re not that freakishly special, then you either belong to a select group of people from whom your god walked away, and you’re not as alone as you think. Or, the departure isn’t what you think it is.

It’s the old chestnut - when things pass beyond our ability to experience them with our senses, do they still exist? Only idiots and philosophers would question whether a person or a building might pop out of existence when they pass beyond our senses, Now, as a philosopher, I’d refine the question:

Does our felt sense or image of a thing cease to exist when that thing passes beyond our ability to sense them?

Obviously, the answer is yes, right? 

Except, sometimes the obvious is just a surface reading. Because much of we sense uses memory to fill in the gaps. When we are able to sense a thing, think of it as a live update to the memory, recorded for later recall.

(And let’s not even get into the delay between things actually happening and us sensing them, because that’s a whole other story.)

Memory works on triggers - we recognize someone by their face, their posture, their speech, their clothes etc. But there are times when something changes that doesn’t jive with our memory. How many times have we had to say: I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there, or I didn’t recognize you with you new haircut/glasses - you look so different? 

We rely on how things were rather than how they are now. The relationship you had with your god is over, done and dusted. Now, there, is only you and the kosmos, the All-That-Is. Mourn, grieve if you wish, there’s nowt wrong with that. Then dry your eyes, and take a look at the world.

You’ve probably been here before, and, back then, certain things happened which led to a relationship with your god. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, that things like that happen. That gods and spirits abound, and if you want them to be part of your world, you have to think and act in a way that isn’t exactly ordinary. You have to be observant (in all its senses) open to the rich and strange variety of the kosmos.

And you have to realize, deep within, that contact with gods leaves you different. You cannot be near them, or they you, without change:

Being a god is the quality of being able to be yourself to such an extent that your passions correspond with the forces of the universe, so that those who look upon you know this without hearing your name spoken. Some ancient poet said that the world is full of echoes and correspondences. Another wrote a long poem of an inferno, wherein each man suffered a torture which coincided in nature with those forces which had ruled his life.

Being a god is being able to recognize within one’s self these things that are important, and then to strike the single note that brings them into alignment with everything else that exists. Then, beyond morals or logic or esthetics, one is wind or fire, the sea, the mountains, rain, the sun or the stars, the flight of an arrow, the end of a day, the clasp of love. One rules through one’s ruling passions. 

Those who look upon gods then say, without even knowing their names, ‘He is Fire. She is Dance. He is Destruction. She is Love.’ So, to reply to your statement, they do not call themselves gods. Everyone else does, though, everyone who beholds them. - Lord of Light, Roger Zelazny

Even by their supposed absence, the god influences you. Drives you to ask a question of me, makes you ask for advice, because there is a gap, a space-between, a difference between what was and what is.

Now, I’m no oracle, no prophet. Just some bearded frothing madman on the internet. You might read this post, and disagree with everything I’m saying, every secret, subconscious implications that the hidden part of your consciousness picks up without you noticing. Not because I’m a crippled Gandalf, casting spells on those who read my words, but because that’s the way language works.

Because language works, for good or ill. It conceals and reveals, guides the mind - and if it’s worked well, perhaps the soul as well.

So you ask my advice, seek my view. You ask of a man who’s had his own counselling session today, whose counsellor wondered at certain events and how to interpret them. You ask me what I see, what I sense, from your question; where it meets my experience and what it conjures up to type, to post here.

And, if you’ve read this far, I’ll let you into a secret: I stepped aside long ago, and let the conjuring bring these words forth. This is coming from a place that is different to an ordinary consciousness. 

I’m no oracle, no prophet. Just a man with a mission of words, to answer every question I can. So, here’s the deal, laid out on the table, like blackjack. Just how much do want to remain as you are?

How much are you willing to protect the idea you have of the you-that-was? How much do you want safety? Because, let me tell you, it’s gone, Even if you’ve noticed some changes, I wonder how long it’s going to take you to notice the ones you’ve not noticed, until now?

I wonder, how long until you remember that everything is connected? How the difference between a blessing and a curse is merely a point of view? How distance and space are always filled with something - whether that something be something else, or your very own self?

Agree with this, or disagree because I don’t know you or your situation, because I’m just firing words at a page, and because things became richer and stranger than you supposed, maybe?

And also maybe, because it hurts, and you’re not sure what to do, or where to turn. Because what you thought you knew and trusted, is no longer so. Because I’m telling you what you already know - stimulating action and reaction. Each word, in each context, has meaning. Change the context, the meaning changes also. The cues, the triggers, connect to different memories, conjure different things.

I wonder what conjures you? What calls-you-forth in spite of yourself?

Because we can talk about summoning gods and spirits ‘til we’re blue in the face, but humans surely are not the exception. We too are spirits, wights amongst the vast thronging conclave of the Pandaemonic All.

One of Many, and so we might suppose that change is constant, and what we see as singular is in fact complex, multiple and interconnected.

Your situation is subject to multiple influences; your feelings, your reading of my words - how you interpret their flow, directed with a particular purpose by me - your background, your actions, inactions, and your relationship with your god.

As I’ve said, perceived absence exerts an influence, just like the spaces between and within the glyphs we call letters, which represent pieces of language, all put together with a particular aim.

An aim that loops and repeats, that comes again and again, like sea washing against stubborn stones, all roar and hiss and spray on the surface, all dark pulsing current below, infinite benthic patience. An ocean of time, composed of an obscene number of individual droplets, each moving into and out of each other.

Rocks erode, barriers dissolve.

Such are the actions of the gods.

As the Moon pulls the waters, so the salty tides ebb and flow and rise; water kisses skin as we swim, surrounded by the same. The lunar influence directs us, its gravity dictating, moving with the changes in temperature, Sun and Earth bringing conjoined influences to bear.

Are we not mostly water? Is our blood not salty as the sea?

And yet, do we not think ourselves free from such influences, with our lighted streets, our taps and faucets, our climate change and Prime Ministers and Presidents?

But still the gods cross into the sphere of our senses, interface with our bodies and minds, coil themselves in our blood, steal our breath and replace it with their own?

Still, the sheer madness of their existence in the 21st century, passed from tongue to text to television, brought forth from books and bodies. From the voices on the wind, the mounds of earth, the whispering leaves, the roar of traffic, the light-laden threads of fibre-optics, the sewer-swelling. From the cracks and the edges, from ancient statues held in climate controlled prisons-cum-museums.

(And lo, I do not recall typing prisons, but there it is. Statues of lion-headed goddesses, all properly open-mouthed. The falcon’s scream, all cold and seeking soaring thermals, full of cruel, sharp-taloned knowing.)       

You, who feel bereft? Who feel a hole within your heart? Take a breath, and hold it. Bear down upon that random passing divinity, all unspoken, all unknown. Feel it surge, the blood pound in your ears, and then, when you can no longer bear the weight, and then let go.

Take another.

Then another.

Again and again; so you breathe. so you live.

Influenced and influencer, deep behind the skin of your mind, down deep and deeper still, is that which you do not know. That which changes, alters itself on the unseen altars. Believe me or not, all this, going fore and back, is true. 

It is as true as your tongue, your teeth, your nails that grow and hair that pushes from skin and scalp.

By now, we’re lost, you and I, dear reader, in a labyrinth of words, as one without Ariadne. The unseen monster at the centre of the maze is a portal, a passage to divinity. It lives, it breathes, it shits, it drinks, it eats, it pisses.

It lives, just as you do. It has been at the centre of things since just after the Beginning, when Mother wove a cradle from the entrails of Father. Dwells in darkness, so it does, for all things have long since burnt out in competition with its starry shine.

It led Magi to Bethlehem, burning in the hollowed heavens, bringing offerings to a King amongst them, things that the Anointed would use to rise as premier Magus above all.

And there, standing at the crossroads, we find the sacred heart of All, blood flung in all directions - hallowing the world entire.

Signs and wonders, anon, portals and portents, things that happen, are happening. Symbols rise and fall, are seen and unseen, coming together with us when we are in the right time, place, and state of mind to receive these Strangers, these visiting dignitaries and potentates from Behind-and-Within-and-Through. 

 It is not about you.  You have have been touched, changing even now as I write, You are becoming. When the change arranges for you to receive, then and only then does the unknown become known, the familiar become strange.

You wanted advice, and this is it. Serve yourself, and realize that it was never was, what you think it was. And neither are you who you thought you were.

Stop thinking, and allow yourself to become.

Perhaps then, you might see things…