The clay does not inquire of itself, what it will be. And neither must it ask another. It need not be told what it is too become.
The clay simply is.
It suffers through.
It does nothing, but be.
It thinks not.
But is.
And allows itself, to be done.
The seed, it does not worry about it’s outcome. It’s end. It’s process. It’s why’s and it’s how’s.
It does not bother itself with it’s identity and purpose.
It is.
And life is done unto it.
It sits.
Is buried, or not.
Sprouts, or not.
Blooms, or not.
It is carried along by any and everything, but itself.
It intrinsically is already prepared to manifest it’s original essence.
Never is Itself the one that must manipulate its own environment and circumstances in order to bring about its natural evolution.
It is.
It says not.
It contemplates not.
It does not.
Yet it is done, and done unto; and thus it’s purpose so fulfilled, it’s end so determined.
The heart does not ask permission to desire. To long for.
It does not choose what to be impassioned by.
It can be fed, it can be starved.
Yet, the heart does not go easily.
It fights for the survival of its deepest hungers.
It is a life of its own.
It is.
The Undoing of Me 