The Buddah: I think I'll just separate myself from you and watch you carry on.
Pull away from you as if I were the thing in itself, and you were the beautiful, the hated, the fringes around things, the colors. I look at your world-full, action-full pawing for attention in word-less, symbol-less, action-less disgust.

I disregard your details, but at the same time I like to make judgements about them because they are such boring little "somethings", in my response to my EVERYTHING (or nothing, whichever you choose).

I stand tall and proud, (yet somehow not tall or proud enough to crowd you out.)

I know nothing of crying
And I know nothing of trying. I just know about negating (maybe I know something about hating?)

Now that's a particular, a something, a shape. But certainly
I'm not hating you. . . I'm a nothing, if not objective-- I don't care, I swear. . . I'm a universal observer-- a voyeur, a voiceless sound telling you things.

Me: so then I must come back at you, my "objective voice." My pedantic one, my philosophical albatross. You've kept me from investigating myself for long enough---when I tell you I'm sick and tired, you sneer and say, "So is everyone!" When I told you my diagnosis, you laughed and turned into a wall and said you span continents-- no, you span the universe, and you're ALL that Matters. You've tried to blow away my selfishness, and yet somehow I think the broken pieces have come together inside of me and formed a diamond in my groin. Not to be forgotten this: I have not poetic completion for any of this before you, oh Holy One.