The mind is a temple. Sometimes a dungeon.
A devil’s playground when it’s noisy. A God’s laboratory when it’s idle.
It behaves as if it has an identity without me.
As if it is something I don’t understand.
Oh, but is it not who understands everything?
These thoughts of making progress, of doing good.
The mischief of something clever.
A deed of kindness.
An urge to avenge something from past.
It knows poetry but fails when needed.
It knows prose but fails when the hands are ready.
It knows sketching but when I pick up the pencil what does it do?
It makes me rise up every morning.
It makes me lazy in the afternoon.
May be it does not know a thing.
May be all it knows is what it does.