Is this a test of my cynicism?
Or to put it another way….
How gullible I am?

Or is it my addiction/affliction
And whether I have a say?

Why am I always going in circles?
Going round, round in my head?
(Can’t get you outa my mind)
And really that is fine.
But sometimes I dread.

I can see it.
Don’t you?

How stupid this is?
rooted in cotton clouds
somehow made my bed.

But this is me in Obscurity.
buried in the noise.

And that is fine, don’t you mind it.
You’ll find it when I’m dead…

poem 4, from The Woods Project

This is one of the only poems I wrote before the Stream began and is a reflection on some of my insecurities about this project and my obsessions. I have  come to believe that your obsessions are a way your subconscious tries to tell you something. You just have to learn to hear what it is saying.