In the darkness of the night, only occasionally relieved by glimpses of Nirvana as seen through other people's windows, wallowing in a morass of self-despair made only more painful by the knowledge that all I am is of my own making ... 

When everything around me, even the kitchen ceiling, has collapsed and crumbled without warning. And I am left, standing alive and well, looking up and wondering why and wherefore. 

At a time like this, which exists maybe only for me, but is nonetheless real, if I can communicate, and in the telling and the bearing of my soul anything is gained, even though the words which I use are pretentious and make you cringe with embarrassment, let me remind you of the pilgrim who asked for an audience with the Dalai Lama. 

He was told he must first spend five years in contemplation. After the five years, he was ushered into the Dalai Lama's presence, who said, 'Well, my son, what do you wish to know?' So the pilgrim said, 'I wish to know the meaning of life, father.' 

And the Dalai Lama smiled and said, 'Well my son, life is like a beanstalk, isn't it?' 

Held close by that which some despise 
which some call fake, and others lies 
And somewhat small 
for one so tall 
a doubting Thomas who would be? 
It's written plain for all to see 
for one who I am with no more 
it's hard at times, it's awful raw 

They say that Jesus healed the sick and helped the poor 
and those unsure 
believed his eyes 
- a strange disguise 
Still write it down, it might be read 
nothing's better left unsaid 
only sometimes, still no doubt 
it's hard to see, it all works out