A poet/philosopher is both born and made. When one is thrust forth into the cold, uncaring world via a violent series of contactions, or torn from a warm rhythmic sea of nutrients, one's ability to recover from this trauma is wholly dependent upon how much of the collective unconscious one internalizes in utero. If a sufficient amount is retained, one would be innately aware that this process is in reality the first step on the quest for spiritual enrichment and a one-ness with all things, with life and nature and IT and US. The processing of external stimuli leads one eventually to the conclusion that once this quest is embarked upon in totality, one exists alone, and yet, one can never be alone, as one is in actuality ALL, and ALL is contained within the one. Self-replicating machine-elves are always just outside of a viable consciousness; sometimes visible via chemically-induced glimpses into that wholly alien "other," and sometimes visible via mental "impairments," such as schizophrenia. In these states, the theory of time as a linear constuct is wholly demolished and obliterated, and a mobeus strip becomes apparent. It is with this innate (but buried, and only able to be drawn out with a Zen-like patience and discipline) knowledge, once it is acknowledged and processed and internalized, so that it is no longer on the level of thought, but on the level of instict and emotion, that one can truly be free of the bindings that his fellow man, and hence, society, has placed upon him, and to be ready to cross over into that heretofore unknowable "other," where all the real work of one's existence and journey awaits.
Either that, or one could just write haiku.
Either that, or one could just write haiku.
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