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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476604" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>He Doesn't Really Know What It All Means</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476604" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">He doesn't really know what it all means, <br>but he gives it access to his heart, free-range of his mind.<br>Not expecting an answer to the mystery of life<br>because it isn't petty enough to have one, <br>he explores its horrors and wonders along the way<br>making small discoveries like rings and keys in the grass. <br>He doesn't look at things darkly through a glass anymore<br>since his binoculars turned into the third eye <br>of a mandalic kaleidoscope that has a way <br>of turning his chromatic aberrations into enlightenment. <br>And if he does it's usually a nightsky squandering stars <br>on those with the eyes to see them in the starmud<br>of their flesh and blood, in everyone of their insights, <br>an intimacy with billions of midnight suns all shining at once.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476604" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Mind includes the brain but the brain doesn't include the mind. <br>Just the way love includes the heart, but the heart <br>is a mere nugget of love, compared to what there is of love<br>it takes more than the measure of a universe to contain. <br>This is the cruising altitude of a submarine <br>that has spiritual aspirations of becoming a flying fish, <br>forgetting that love and mind are formless and without images <br>that can be grasped or rejected like stained glass windows, <br>totem poles or icons. If love were as brittle as that <br>it would surely break. You could lose it. You'd<br>need to defend it. It could be wounded like a rose <br>that suffered haemophilia for the rest of its fragile life.<br>You'd have to look for it down on your hands and knees<br>late at night when the grass is wet, with a lantern of fireflies.<br>You'd have to put the pieces back together with the binding energies<br>of the strong and weak nuclear forces if you ever <br>stepped on it accidentally like a nesting English skylark's egg. <br>And if you ever ran out of it when the water palace <br>of the black Taj Mahal turned back into a hovel in a slum, <br>you'd have to beg, and that would either empower your inferiors <br>or open a window of opportunity as big as the nightsky<br>for the indefinable to be merciful to the unattainable. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476604" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But take it from the experienced astroalchemist he is <br>if you mix a little starmud with a splash of moonwater, <br>and stir it in your heart, and let it sit awhile, <br>then drink a great draft of it from your skull <br>as if you could swallow a whole river in a single gulp, <br>down to the last drop, this feeling will overwhelm you <br>and halfway between midnight and the new moon<br>love will lend its eyes to your mind, <br>like the nightsky does starlight to a mirror, <br>and both will disappear into the longest, clearest light year of their lives.<br>If not, he tells himself, it's binary galaxies with binoculars<br>passing through each other like the ghosts of two starfish <br>trying to find a dynamic equilibrium to their maculate lucidity <br>like a gyroscope in a space where you don't really need one <br>but for the optics of what you can see <br>with your naked third eye, is probably tender and wise.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a></strong></div>