“We all have ‘issues’,” has not seemed particularly helpful in the context of life accompanied by affliction; Black Lives Matter movements demonstrate so clearly.
As to growth, what else does a plant dance to the rhythms of? Round and round, dusk, dawn; the short switch goes, rhythms of a guiding light, gone. Dancing is such a switching. A little growth at the tip over here, now just a bit over there, breathe, relax, aim, squeeze… does the calligraphy brush move? How does it then appear as if ink blooms off the hairs’ tips… be careful, it’s beyond both, and… beyond even that, it is beyond neither!
Standing at the precipice, look, a strawberry — letting go, the switch thrown, beyond reckless…beyond embrace, beyond distaste. Echoing down a long dark hallway of time, do “you” hear the sound of the river far off in the distance? Or is it just hearing altruistic, sans self?
There is a reason it is called bright, illuminated; set against the deepest black, beyond even that, mu… is a dance beyond light, beyond dark, beyond “these” entering/in/exiting superposition. Such is an awesome sight, superpositioned with the beautiful black. The yang is, the yin, beyond “is”.
Word salad? Yes please, with a little oil, vinegar, pepper, and… salt… cut and stick, cut and stick… delicious. Satiated, read without rhythms of syntactic switching, cut and stick set aside, it is a slimy mess, decomposing, rotten… to the compost bin, lights… out… either way it’s beyond “we all”, sometimes other-view is the sedan, sometimes mu is the compost truck.
May this be of benefit to limitless beings.