A Word with Which We Speak

Many things are learned once we are able to turn our "self" off and place our focus on another person.  And I don't mean romance, although romantics do it.  When I am able to listen, it's always extraordinary how much I learn.  How much I observe.  How much I can activate.  How much someone else knows, how much you know.  Everyone speaks truths in everyday life, and if you listen, inhale, osmosis. 

To be, I must do.

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The cultured mind.  Faulted. 
               The intelligent.  Insightful.
      Footsteps tread lightly when egos are born. 
Noise finds me clear-headed. 
                                               Clear-headedness finds me confusion.  Confusion, I
              understand. 
             Understanding is successful navigation.  But do I stand under or
                                                                                                             over? 
        I think I am clever, but my cleverness is wry, and the clever are cleft by
                      their wit and
                          their pride. 
That rhymed.
          Sometimes we are right, and sometimes we are wrong. 
             Sometimes we are wrong, but still right. 
          Sometimes we are right but it's wrong. 
                              The wrong right makes a wrong right
                      and righted wrongs are still wronged rights. 
                                                                                                     Confused?  I am.


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Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

I understand now.  I have made an adoption.  Experiments. 
              And I can't stop.
         A bite now.  A bit.  A thought.  A?  A can't stop.
                                                              Well, while it flows, flow it shall do.  Bad grammar?
               Laugh.
                  The page will inundate with words.  But space is where words exist.  And from space words. 
   From nothing. 
            Regurgitating.  Morphing.  Growing.  New power. 
          Words a visual art.  A picture on a page. 
                                              Beautiful. Ugly.  Meaningful?
                                 Full of meaning?.
                  Nah, maybe.  Is it maybe or nah? 
            It's easy to be the wild child, if everyone's a wild child.  It's not so weird to be weird, when everyone's weird.  I'm losing it.
A paragraph of sorts. beginning again, maybe the writing and the art are no longer eclipsing.  Prose is beautiful, and more beautiful when they are full of space.



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I think people would become more confident if they become more humble.  If they are humble, they are open to their own mistakes and open to absorbing thoughts and perspectives from other people.  They continue to learn and grow.  Thus they learn that if they learn to work within their own faults, they can also learn to work within their own talents.  

People hate admitting they're wrong.  Especially when they're REALLY wrong.  Maybe I'm wrong.

Oh well, sleep time.