Humanity seems to me a broken piece of life,
a bad anomaly in an otherwise mathematical world,
an emotion unto itself, an isolation cold and bleak.
Are we wired to feel broken?
Can we overcome our hardships,
brought upon us by our own minds?
Must we be like Siddhartha,
lost in balancing subjectivity and objectivity,
unsure if we find common reason with the deists
or feel that flight with romanticists is best,
forgetting our gentle, muffled Self along the way,
only to find them in a lonely river and its keeper?
Because the Vltava is a little too murky and polluted,
and the tourists voices drown out
any other that might be chanting from those hungry waters.
And I have yet to meet a wise old man with hair of white;
he sounds like the archetypal wizards from those books I love to read.
Can I not think? Might I accomplish what he could not
with thought? He turned from the Buddha,
respectful as he was,
claiming that we must all find our own paths-
but can others eliminate methods through their own finding?
Hesse seems confused; he cannot find a thesis in his own book.
The bible of the beatniks seems so contradictory to me.
Yet, Siddhartha in his struggle
to find himself and his Self,
thinking he was so alone throughout his life,
cannot help but parallel my own.
In some ways, he seems the epitome of humanity.
Perhaps I must grow older in order to understand;
I don't know.
Isn't that what they always say?
"You'll understand when you're older"?
I just feel bad for the people who die young.
Okay. I know it isn't very good. But, that's why I need feedback.
Thanks!
-Coral-
