Meta-cognition is a Door to Many Paths; Open it to Your Purpose

sometimes, all it takes to realize your purpose is a recognition or awareness of your thought patterns, & the accompanying nature of the force driving those thoughts. There are strengths to be found in these patterns, and by keying into them, one establishes an understanding of boundaries, & pure, self-directed enlightenment. Follow the thoughts where they lead, and know thyself, my friend. Think about what you're thinking and understand the source of your personal, cognitive force. Be consistent in your pursuit of this understanding, so much so that you see the end in your beginnings often; and by doing this, eventually comprehend the power of all that constitutes your identity as a living forecast of your own mind.   
It can be a fearful thing to see most thoughts to the end. As I sometimes peruse my thoughts, i do a funny thing- I find the courage to halt one or two, as if suspended in mid-air; to these thoughts, i somehow command that they do a gradual, complete 360. In doing this, I gain clarity like no other; depth of ages and even sages; it feels even, as though I have established a successful communication between such a thought and myself. It is powerful beyond measure when we think daringly, fearlessly and with great command over our mental scenery. When fear of taboo, of inadequacy and such many fears one faces, as one dives within oneself- when such fears whisper words that create a fog in this your mind-beautifully crafted for exploration of reasoning- you must recall, simply that "you are the master of your fate; the captain of your soul". Fear laughs out in approval at the man who knows the authority he commands. 
Seize your inner landscape my friend, and you seize liberty: a purposeful life is lived freely!
Think and think about what you're thinking- this is meta-cognition. When you stumble in a fog of fear, as fear is often rooted in emotion, breathe through & with the emotions. Follow your thoughts right to the essence, your emotions are cheering you on! AND PLEASE DO A 360 WHEN YOU'RE DONE!

Just as the artist paints shadows in colors of his choosing, so it is with pain: we alone, choose the mark it leaves. Light up your shadows!

Loud Silence in Our Rearview: Hiding the Past Without A Future

The places I've been, odd places seen. Of narrowing roads-clean, but old and never revealing. Secrets and pain, exploding beneath.. A rising ocean and lowly sitting bridge. tarred and clean still, yet worn out and thin still. cracking and crumbling against such pressure and waves, tumbling.
Clean as it was; just a moment and a long pause.
Discovered now, drenched, thin, in oceans of muddy water. filthy from the cracks traveling through this road's swelling secrets. Clean as it was; clean as it once was. Just a moment and a long pause. 
All together, all at once, burrowing my imagination of tomorrow's acres; acres welded into mountains born of sky... Another colorless season and formless mirage.
Truth be told, this traveler's not alone ..yet dredging solo; one-eyed; blood shot sight; incisive bearing of the mind, free from myopia. A wholesomeness concealed beneath the blooded and wounded eye; just as the road's era of secret knowing and inertia. Traveling light, all but hope left behind in flight.
Dreamed of this revealing and concealing at night. Now heavily breathing into waking, catching a quick glimpse-out beneath the sky-of a mirage. several mirages after: dredging, still. this is the stuff futures are made of, is the thing they say. This may be faith in how they pray. The sweet taste of spinning ribbons off of packaged dreams. Never had they imagined the un-earthing of such pungent taste as dust. One broken eye, one rushing mirage and a few un-promised futures. imagine this quick scene of the ocean and narrowest roads, with pressure & boiling-traveling acres-between...a mirage ahead, a brightly charcoal-ed view of  loud silence, edging behind.

let the ignorant talk; they believe they have conceived that which came before the sun. let the wise keep awe, honoring the sun's tales.

in my understanding of life & growth, there is always this debate about cause & effect: 'what' came first; the chicken or the egg? when in reality, these things occur at the same time, just not manifesting at the same rate.

Immaculate Madness; My Red Rose

Beautiful madness; my red rose. Fields of people; tied up white roses: They stay lovely for such & such a time, and their love- never all mine. Observe their loveliness as it fades: not sublime. because you come and you go; your fragrance and your halo. This sweet madness I cling to, gone like a mist- of dreams, and real too. Turning every imperfection to the serpent's conquest: of Moses' stride and silhouette dreams; Moses' speech, time-less hours.
beautiful madness, do I seek the world, or does this world seek me? Having no ties to this world, I see how true ugly can be, I see you as beauty for free. too sane, this world that exists; this field of white.  Does it just hold fast to a moment, a time? I did, I did get my forever today; little worth these days, it's all about the bay. maybe it's all they need: lavish moments in seed, without ever a tree. sweet madness, my internal world has begun to promise me eternity..past eternity...Tales of walking silhouette dreams and an architect of my subconscious and things. Oh, these memories of dreams & dreams of memories designed by the the awoken imprints in me. Of fear too, poured into my world: A simple casket of white roses. I told you when you go, their halos are no more. All this, I tell you in secret, magnificent madness. The architect had forever with me, yesterday, but I did pray. All of the angels searched for you, for me. Seeking the rose, they held your scent and saw silhouettes of you, but never you.... A painter could never have red in such a hue. Another night in the hands of my gripping subconscious: immersed in tales of dreams and fears and memories. I shall, this time, break into the boundaries of sanity... I shall this time, break into the boundaries of time at its most vulnerable hour. The world shall know my name and think me Moses. I promise them madness and I promise them now. Another night designed by this architect of loaded things: my subconscious, whose clock never works and knows not when to stop. I will rise and awaken those who sleep forever. A resurrection of every dead; let dreams exist no more. Let the subconscious burst into fields of white roses: where there were walking silhouette dreams, let there be those who slept forever. Beautiful madness, they shall-each one-know your name. They shall-each one- know our pain. How we had roared out of many swinging eternity's. Once, how we cried to be freed from the hours of this world, and its imprints and silhouettes and things. Immaculate madness, within the imprints of the conscious, the ties of the subconscious, during time's stand still, you heard a whisper: of the angels and the living-those resurrected, and those insisting on breathing. Each whisper, calling out to "red rose". this madness is a thing called love now, you know? My red rose, my love with you is unlike tendering fields for February, just to have them die in march. My love for you is like the painter's search for your hue. His heart searches for you openly, but sees you in secret, quite regularly. One rose for the world: perhaps, Moses told this one a secret, to make it bloom as it does. My sweet madness.

Pride Begets Pride: Newton's Forgotten Law?

Just like a poison and its antidote, we speak of pride, and humility is always implied. Unlike the antidote beget by its poison, pride only begets pride. this is no Newtonian law of action and reaction. perhaps, maybe it is a chemical reaction governed by primal rules: those of natural laws of reason, and of karma.
The proud one, forever proud, will one day self destruct- the Holy Bible spoke first of this chemistry. A quick little tale on the combustible outcome of your favorite disposition, it reads: 'Pride comes before destruction, and an arrogant spirit before a fall'.
I listen as you speak of all that go on around you, yet you are one man, blinded by elements of pride within and without. This pride is a tough skin, kindred one. Often you will deliberate and reach for an idea, only to realize you have reached nowhere at all. Your voice of reason, lost to the pull of motions, orchestrated by vulnerable emotions. These emotions, disguised as pride. I will tell you of anger, I will tell you of jealousy and regret: conditions of the heart, that love itself hates. Elements of combustion, elements of pride: such emotions will certainly steer one from purposeful action and intention. Examining the condition of my mind in the presence of pride, it suffers in pain: clouded, suffocating, confused. You will have to picture a forest waking up to sulfur, where carbon should be. Much the same way, pride emerges where love should be. What a struggle to breathe and exist; what a struggle to simply be. Call it anger, call it jealousy, but I bear this to you, kindred one, we lack humility.
Sitting atop a mountain, is humble heart, brave, and watching as the world sits beneath. Of all the worldly pomp and show down below she sits in the sky, and what does she see? one wave for every ocean, and a simple rainbow for the flags of every nation. With clarity, humility begets humility and quietly commands complexities. My friend and kin, with a humble disposition, 'forever' becomes a mere glance.

music || 'Careless Whisper' - George Michael

LEGACY: History's Concubine

The restrictions and the definitions. Always, we quantify our moments between the sunrise and the sunset. 

The children; oh, how they play with time, yet find you with none: having nothing. One of a lineage of beggars, you are forever seeking time. You run, and run so hard. With each step hitting the ground, and the whole world is awake to time's chasing after you. 

Unlike the child, well aware that this is not a race against time; unlike the child knowing that we must simply attempt to touch time, in order to change the times. Unlike that child, you continue in your trade, packaging time for an empty, worthless eternity; this is what you do.

In every room, you find the clock; in everything you find the taxation of the watch. Exchanging time as a commodity; this is what you do.

Perhaps, on a good day, we would find our exchange of time no different from the exchanges-of guns and mirrors and liquor-made, in an attempt to shackle the African race. 

We would find history unkind as a lover scorned. Of all the stories of history "amended"; of all that history knows of this lineage, how shall you ever find time, and not smoke and mirrors?

Yes! The world hears your feet upon the ground, indeed it does. It listens as you stomp between the sun, rising, and its setting. You fear a battle with time, do you not? What have you learned from the child, my friend?

Stop now! This time you quantify with a tick and a tock, I demand to see you qualify. Show me how your time has made it as one of History's concubines: Of quality, I see the work of Dashrath Manjhi's hands. Of quality, I hear the tales of "the Crown of Palaces". Of quality like no other, but the pyramids of Africa. 

Show me the quality of your time and History only, will reveal your heart: of this, I ask. I speak of time, I speak to time.... Of all the catastrophes abandoned to her in captivity, how do your own talks with History, not bind you so immaculately to this living currency that you say is time?

You run from-and prepare to battle-the SUNRISE; this is what you do.