a random rumination

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What wanders so close it cannot be seen? What is so near it is now hidden to our blinded eyes? This is the soul. Our soul. The soul of another which cries and yells in rabid discontent, caught up in our own inner frenzies of being, unable to say more or do more or show more. Yet we ignore the plaintive cries, we expound on things irrelevant, never listening, never noticing, never bothering with that which is loudest and clearest.

And so we wander, always wander, never settling into ourselves, wanting only to become what someone else is, even as they wander to yet another. There is no peace, there is no comfort there is nothing which gives sign to an end. We are refugees from ourselves. No one will take us in.

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