soul seeking mind: a poem.

I wonder whether what matters means anything. Or is what we think have nothing to do with us, only a voice we trust exists and have decided to believe in once in a while? A philosophical poet we claim ourselves to be, just so we feel we are responsible for something greater that has been or is preoccupied with being produced. This thing above our bodies, that we cannot touch nor feel, but think can be found within us—what is it, this mind, that I wish I could feel matters? I grow larger, thicker even, with frustration—an effect of this knowingness of myself being, despite having a life in reality where I do not see myself as or for what I am. Although, I am, showing up somewhere, a breath spreading on a mirror and in it is someone present I cannot catch, someone I cannot pass through without breaking through things, less abstract than I. Blood before the heart beats is a complexity that perplexes every listening ear, but I tell them all the same, how I feel it is what defines me as often as time lasts. It will be forever, until I see some other kind of life. Imagine that! I barely can see it happening, but maybe all I have to do is continue after now, and maybe then my mind will have arrived at the distance it knows it needs to go. Even though my body does not feel it is moving with my mind, does not know whether they are partners in love.