I know that
I’m not always right—
It’s just that:
I hate when I am.

The feeling is always rational,

The time and place never are
…that.

This feeling can’t be the cause of them,
Or could it?
I’m not so sure that it could on its own.

I think it’s a unity—
Not just my feeling alone,
Rather,
It’s a presence of two.

This feeling is the antecedent.
Next comes
knowing the time somehow.
Then it’s the place.

But none of this would happen
At all,
If not for the same shared space.

We must have space,
To give us a body,
Of this non-representative sort.
Call it abstract, absolute, or whatever you want.

Why do I have this knowledge first,
And afterwards
get mad at the empirical confirmation?

Why is it that I seek this validation—
When I know that I don’t need it?

The only explanation needed
is this feeling.

Which I know in itself is a vindication,
It’s just that I can’t stop doubting my own imagination.

I’m starting to think that:
it’s the presence of this other feeling,
making me a victim of the augmentation.

And this feeling gives me an instant penetration
Leading me into another’s thoughts,
whose mind is in part or apart of my own representation.

Because your body is clearly present.

Yet neither can the form or extension be denied.
Together,
They are obvious marks of the projection
Which need not anymore of an explanation…
Other than its own declaration.

If I didn’t understand,
then I wouldn’t be on the same page.

But the feeling present to me,
and the feeling I present back,
definitely speaks volumes.

—————————————-

I love feeling the things that the mind can’t even begin to think
of without it