I wonder how much less the perpetual waves of life’s tide knocks me down
Than it is how I am perceiving the knitted patterns in their own Way of unfolding
Is it not so much the ordinary moments than it is the riptide I carry within me
And what company is the stranger within; Whispering doubt and shouting profane
And yet; often my hands and feet know more of the craft of how to Live in this Life
More than all my thoughts bound up as one – it is the “I” that creates untamed chaos.
Me I will throw away.
Me sufficient for the day
The sticky self that clings
Adhesions on the wings
To love and adventure,
To go on the grand tour
A man must be free
– Poem from: Patrick Kavanagh: The Self-Slaved