refering in the third person
I'm always amazed that dreams can be full of surprises given that it's one's own mind telling the story. One part of the brain must be plotting while the other is passively just taking it in. Lately I've been dreaming a lot and inevitably there's a twist ending that shocks me and leaves me thinking about it well into wakefulness. Old faces appear in odd places, fears and desires are expressed so oddly, the scenery is so vivid, it seems impossible that it's my own mind putting it all together.
That paragraph doesn't seem to make any sense. Words are hard right now. I'll use someone else's. A Rumi Poem:
AN AWKWARD COMPARISON
This physical world has no two things alike.
Every comparison is awkward, rough.
You can put a lion next to a man,
but the placing is hazardous to both.
Say the body is like this lamp.
It has to have a wick and oil. Sleep and food.
If it doesn't get those, it will die,
and it's always burning those up, trying to die.
But where is the sun in this comparison?
It rises, and the lamp's light
mixes with the day.
Oneness,
which is the reality, cannot be understood
with lamp and sun images. The blurring
of a plural into a unity is wrong.
No image can describe
what of our fathers and mothers,
our grandfathers and grandmothers, remains.
Language does no touch the one
who lives in each of us.
That paragraph doesn't seem to make any sense. Words are hard right now. I'll use someone else's. A Rumi Poem:
AN AWKWARD COMPARISON
This physical world has no two things alike.
Every comparison is awkward, rough.
You can put a lion next to a man,
but the placing is hazardous to both.
Say the body is like this lamp.
It has to have a wick and oil. Sleep and food.
If it doesn't get those, it will die,
and it's always burning those up, trying to die.
But where is the sun in this comparison?
It rises, and the lamp's light
mixes with the day.
Oneness,
which is the reality, cannot be understood
with lamp and sun images. The blurring
of a plural into a unity is wrong.
No image can describe
what of our fathers and mothers,
our grandfathers and grandmothers, remains.
Language does no touch the one
who lives in each of us.