At times that I want to and I can't. At times that I shouldn't and I do. I stand by when I do and when I stare a blank. Conceptually the state of being at times is a like a bullet waiting for a charge.

What I miss is what seems everyday to my eyes. 
Relationships disappear first, the furniture and the colors of the wall next. The garden where I walk, the book shops that I visit too. 
When did I see? 
The first time? 
The first time I see an object I see the appearance, compare it to the object seen before, recognize it and name it. If it requires touch, I touch it or smell or taste as the case maybe.
The first time viewing is relative, it may require a second or some time and that is the start of missing it, because of constant seeing. 
Relationships too are like objects. Although they can't be touched and smelled except in poetry or romance, their immediateness of sensation is lost  as the object becomes everyday.
Sleeping, waking and pursuing too are missed. The anger that gets built in, the build up of frustration that follows through because of missing the entire process of life, which after some years becomes an everyday affair of living but never ever treated as one. Some hope still lies in if this everyday affair is treated like one in its actuality.

There are times when I wake up with a start as if the entire night was months in period and I must have slept all that period. The eyes remain close and mouth open, sucking in air. As the eyes open they see two images and they move back and forth in those images. In one they are in a process that seems to be going on for months now, and in other only objects without anything to do, a fan, a pillow and a body. In first there are pleasures or sorrows or other experiences yet unnamed. The other nothing. Perceptions wanting to stay back all the time. Responsibility then starts kicking in and that seems like a punishments sometimes.

Look how oil flows,
A steady flow,
Leaves a coat
On the path it flows.

Analysis is all that is there. The analysis is the intuition. No analysis no intuition. Why a withdrawal happens? Does it really happen, even if it happens, what does it happen from?

A dog called
Radical woke up one day

Radical opened it's eyes with a feeling
From a dream of what it
Wanted to be from what it was already,
It wanted to learn to trust again,
It did not bark,
Looked around and felt that
The time had slowed down
Radical was quiet and so was
It's morning, may be
It wanted it to be slow

Radical then moved slowly
Creating as if something that
Remained of it,
The lamp post which was
Sought after for it's  morning dues
Today all that image
Remained in memory.

Radical felt as if it was creating
Time,
The movement to the bush took
A lot of steps,
The flowers in bush looked
Groovy it thought,
The sky when Radical looked up
Seemed lost,
It had to function
Yet it stopped.

Radical woke up one morning
To find the time stopped untill
It wanted it created.

I could eat anything as
Lovers always do
In truth and as a parting
Friend who gets along
Or gets lost.

Maps to another faces
Living is always the problem
If none do die
Life is never the question
How, how, how,
Is what I should never ask
Only I have to love
To overcome it whatever
That snaps.

I can eat anything
And hence I never lost.

The old tree had always
Old fears
Old nights and
Old romance

The shore stood to
Nothingness
The world it touched
Is where it was destroyed

The clouds remained
In chance
The things around it
Created it
Without the wind it could
Not see the sun

I in an eternity
And the times are over
And done
Mystical seeing, it
Should not be called
The seagull now says
There is nothing here to love
I reply
I experience the kiss
The knowledge of it never stops
That is my point of
Contact with your
World.

You could always go back to your monkey, no life is short and hence indulgence makes sense, you argue. The past responsible for everything, the monkey knows all the causes. But you could go back to it tomorrow. Today you could breathe through all channels no matter what the implications.
The monkey waits till the hunger is satisfied. It can't actually but it does having no choice.

Tears in remote regions
In true location they find
Humor in what they feel

Mostly cold in all regions
They remain frozen
For a God

The threshold is
Never in hunger or thirst
But a Sun, and only
When that is divided

Birth of a origin
End of what was preserved

The journey last will be
Always accompanied by a book.

Being The Silence.

A bird split the silence
The split was the song
The song of my conscious, and
Of my silence was thus
Born.

Visions of ages and brains,
In my histories and my darkness, those
Riding waves and fools,

Now seemed dead,
By my own will only
I found and kept
My song of silence.

Being the silence is never
A resting place,
It is the will in action,
It is addressed, it is in an intention,
The only purpose being to
leave all around me
Absolutely alone.

Life in bloom and glory
Life in wars and famines
I remain still
And sleep in them both.

I was born
And I find hence a reason
Justice and injustice is my
Earths foundation, so
When I go to sleep
As all do and someday
I will too,
I will not have a soul,
Now I do, yes
I have it now and
Will have till I die, till then
I would walk, I have to walk,
For me to sleep still.

Cannot call new new
For new then not remains new
I seek, seek to see me in me
The drive of giving voice to a voice
Marrying a voice to a voice
Is it a goal new?

Your goal comes with a seal
Blinds a me in me
Yet in me,
I remain uncluthched
Lies I say to you
About your goal and it's seal
As a captive I remain one
But I know I cannot call
What you claim as new.

Let the house be left
A bird and it's flocks
Hungers in lust
Smells and memories
Entangled eyes and whispers
All be left.

Let the self be unguarded
The lover on an unknown
path whose
Self being the only source of free will
Never see it's opposite
But in silence
In diagonal vision to all outsides
The self shaved and unguarded.

Let laugh be in all kites
The skies turned on
The yes is always followed through
Millions of shades, the sky shows off
The kites in perfect match
In loops and the swings
Yet perfectly balanced
The laugh remains always in the joy
of the flight.