Early Weekend Report:

Everyone's brain is a spigot.

A man asked a mystic:
"Do you keep talking about the whole mystical thing in pretty ordinary terms just so's you won't start describing it in the really weird way it deserves?"
And studying his skull, which he held in his hand, the mystic said, "Ahhh, I once knew me well."

Education vs. The Knowledge
It's not stupidity that gets you -- but the stupor.

The speaker addressed the crowd,
"Tell me what you worry about and I'll tell you how conscious you are."
And a voice shot back,
"But if a man was just conscious enough to actually be considered conscious,
wouldn't he not be worried about anything anyway?"
And the speaker replied, "Ah! -- you caught me."
And the crowd broke up and lay in the grass.

The difference between a real mystic and wanna-be's
is that the wanna-be's are always looking for a real mystic.
This is why, past a certain point in his understanding,
a mystic has nothing else to read, nor anyone else to listen to.

"It's all there," announced the conductor.
"What's all there? And where is 'there'?" asked many passengers.
"Why, Istanbul," he replied, "it's right there in each of you --
though the way there, and the duration of the journey,
may not be what you'd expected -- but so what
isn't it good to know that it still exists,
and is much closer than you ever imagined?"

Those most simple feel as though they live primarily in their body,
while those more sophisticated think they reside mostly in their mind,
and they both would have to acknowledge that a continuing part of their
life is spent in their emotions, but neither of them see anything in their situation
of any particular interest.

...And as long as your brain is just a normal, mortal outlet for life's
energy, you'll never see anything of any specific significance.
...And a more enlightened version of the philosopher said,
"My thinking thinks for me, therefore I remain in this partial stupor."

Conditions on one world told the wild birds,
"You have your choice as you fly above: to be presently shot down, or postpone it by believing that you have a choice."
..."Daddy, Daddy!" squealed a lad back on Earth, "I want to be a mallard when I grow up!"
"Shush," replied Papa, "no need for such a wish."

A warrior who is not also a poet
is not a fully realized warrior.
Discovery and destruction alike
must the hero be able to privately
describe to himself when called for.
But note:
This poetry would differ radically from the routine
in that it would be totally nonsubjective and self-referable,
while entirely cold-blooded and to-the-point.