Groundlessness is not to be tamed.
Certainty is not an achievement.
A tension deeply ill-famed.
Its presence a call for bereavement.

pondering my future is bootless.
No more thought shall spring actions.
Ten thousand words are fruitless.
The mind fragmented into factions.

The milk of uncertainty is thought.
Only stillness discloses the true.
Creativity cannot be taught.
From chaos it shall brew.

Groundlessness cannot be tamed.
Nor shalI I try to resist.
Let this tension be named.
And on my life shall persist.

What is it to understand?.
To be towards something, to enter it, and for it to enter me.
To really know a place involves finding it from many roads.
"getting to grips" is the proper term.
Can a computer understand?
First ask: can it "get to grips"?.
Can it let something be an ornament in the house of its being?
Can it feel that mastery that accompanies beholding a thought?

If it cannot feel that mastery, it cannot understand.
A calculator is masterful, but never a master.
The master can find a thought from the least expected roads.
The great thinker is a great walker, he makes his own path.

insight really is in-sight, a vision of a new path in thought.
in-sight is an attraction between the knower and unconcealed.
Both move towards each other.
This is not computation.
It is the flow of truth, not a truth.
To be rational is to allow truth to flow unimpeded.
To allow the unconcealed to become revealed, in whatever form.
This is an act of honour, self-restraint, and strength.
A computer will never know what courage it takes.
Forced "rationality" is not rationality.
To think only rationally involves not knowing something.
What irrationally, the impeded flow of truth, is really like.
And this is a paradox of rationality that a computer cannot know.

Minds and machines exist in different spheres.
The one is concrete flow, the other abstract and blind.
Machines live in the same world as numbers.
But we are too blind to see.
Too afraid to admit.
That a machine has faces no grit.
Has no real wit.
Cannot "get to grip".
Has no in-sight.
No feelings of fright.
Not a taste of irrationality.
Or creative originality.
Nor fears its own death.
Or strives for breath.
Does not love without thought.
And can never get caught
Behind the veil of chaos.
But what is our pay off?
True understanding.
Which is to dwell, to decorate, to make home, on the sea of chaos.

A sip of melancholic Earl Grey rekindles emotion
Glancing out of my window at the great commotion
Birds whisper melodies that beckon my mind into security
But still, something feels awry, dampening such purity
I can tolerate great loss of things, but not of meaning
I am not a mere prop in someone else’s dreaming.
A life without depth, is a life without death.
“Life’s but a walking shadow”, says Macbeth.
The office is a concrete asylum, a prison for curiosity.
Glances of joy afloat an ocean of animosity.
I cannot bear all this, whilst those trees beckon me in.
Without attachment, I would be there in a whim.
But obligations borne of fear bind my feet.
I cannot cross this grey, sombre street.
Freedom waves at me from the other side.
I can only wave back from the depths inside.
If I voice my fears about this nihilistic abyss.
I will be a prop out of action, dropped and dismissed.
I still sit here with my tea, my soul in a tangle.
Do I bury these roots, leaving them to mangle?
Maybe these worries will pass away in the morning.
When I am back in work, and a new day is dawning.
Maybe I shall never act, and take this to my grave.
Or shall I reconquer my soul, become what is brave.
A man cannot hide from truth without his soul crumbling.
His mind shall return to it, despite its tumbling.
And here I am, on a Sunday evening, letting it fester.
Watching it mock me like the most honest jester.
And that is okay, for it reminds me that I am living.
Oh, beautiful Sunday, your honesty keeps on giving.