he is not a very nice cat

although there is no-thing to say, i keep on writing.
it is not a remedy nor a drug but happens without
me wishing for it.

It is in the following way a bit like playing golf  or sex -what i saw
in an Irish pub: it is not important to be good at it
but to enjoy it.

in one view writing is most certainly not communication
because i am alone when i write just the same
as i can play golf alone.

concerning sex, hum, it is far removed from sex-
intimacy is when communication turns into communion,
else loving has failed to reach or/and  to let reach
the wounds and heart.

The opening of soul and body is intricately
connected with fear of the death of ego,
with the letting go of  control.

the price for joy and happiness are pain and
vulnerability.

the price for life is death, and it is good.
i see a deep sense and i can feel the release.

as music is best in silence so is all communion
and so are 'good' poems.

going back into silence for a while.
my cat told me.
he is not a very nice cat.
he is as he is.