A Solitary Path of Discovery

Do I become what I see — 
or do the visions become me?
I paint what rises in my mind,
a wondrous rendering of life
that feels half-imagined,
half-remembered.

Sometimes I sense spirits
moving at the edges of perception,
guiding me toward realms
not yet revealed.
For to live is to think,
and to dream is to wonder.

I wander through uncharted scapes
of consciousness,
bathed so deeply in their mystery
that grasping them feels like
trying to hold water
made of light.

I look with hope
toward the creators’ worlds of grandeur —
all the majestic life force
given to this planet
by hands softer
and greater
than mine.

Life is fleeting,
and I take stock of my thoughts
as if they were sacred artifacts —
echoes of what I’ve seen
and what I’ve only remembered.

Everything must be absorbed —
whether lived or imagined.
And in that quiet truth,
I sense how tomorrow’s landscape might change,
how I might change with it.

Will I be happy?
Will I please someone?
Will I witness suffering?
Will I speak?
Will I remain silent?
These questions rise like mist
and dissolve just as easily.

I walk alone
on this solitary path of discovery,
wondering if all we do
is born of singular reasoning
or is everything forgotten
moment by moment,
like breath fading into air.

I do not worry
about being ruled by reason
or moral complexity.
Life here is to see,
to materialize sacred visions within me —
an appetizing journey
between truth
and error.

Does my inquisitive conscience
reside within my brain
or beyond it?
I feel the beyond
is where I truly exist,
with thoughts supplied
by the universal coding
of existence.

What is truth?
What is error?
Are they the same
in certain lights?
They reveal themselves only
to those who dare unlock the mystery
hidden within the crevasse
of the soul.

And as these questions settle,
I return again
to the quiet place
where seeing and being
blur together.

Do I become what I see?
Those who see me
do not witness my visions
nor my truths.
Their gazes drift quietly
into the emptiness
of being.

Am I my own journey —
my own dreams and desires —
aware of the things I see and feel?
Or is this my outer conscience
seeding my mind
with echoes
of things long past