we are building nests around ourselves, creating a home in sense. did we mean to become the types that would build the homes we've built? whether or not we love these homes never helped us answer this question. 

we find ourselves drawn to this or that, valuing it above the other choices. love or beauty sometimes made us choose. many fancy their choices necessary, and they rob themselves of the gift of choice. we were meant to choose and choose we shall, whether or not we'd like to and whether or not we like our choices. 

do you love the world around you? do you love yourself? what do you love? what is appalling to you? what disgusts you? what do you refuse to acknowledge? do not think quickly. rather let others show you the way. others will always show you the way to yourself. and within yourself you can find your way to others.

in this way we can see that the ways of the world are the ways of ourselves. and rather that the ways of ourselves are the ways of our world. it can be difficult to know whether we have built the nest or whether living in this nest has made us who we are. which came first is a wonderful question, wonder filled and endless. 

there are as many nests as there are nest builders. as many known universes as there are individuals in sense. and then each one came to know itself through the others. foolishly and gruesomely entwined, lavishly interwoven, many always becoming one and the one nest being irrevocably many. 

(repetition i am. recurring as always. repetition, to repeat oneself and to find oneself repeated in others, and others repeated in oneself. and to find oneself repeated in oneself- and to find others being known, thought of, as archetypes by one such as myself.) 

we have built a nest around ourselves without looking at it. we have always gazed, trying to see what lies beyond the nest we've built, trying to see the nest "it" built. only we knew the nest through the reflections in each others eyes and "it" is not a builder the way that we are builders. we've had a miscommunication. we saw but did not observe the nest. 

we were like children, knowing but not noticing the care of a mothers subtle hand. we were like the mother, knowing but not observing the blessing of a troublesome child. in both cases a revelation is had after the child leaves the home. and this is what we've tried to do. we've tried to leave the nest and see it from afar. we've found, with consternation, that we cannot leave the nest so we must instead try to see the home through each others eyes. 

the mother is the child and the child is the mother.

the babe knows only its mothers gaze. the babe knows best the air it breathes in the moment it breathes air for the first time, the moment it sees its mothers loving face, and then it promptly forgets. this too is when the mother most authentically knows love. the trouble is this: having forgotten about the air we breath, and having loved at our finest, how can we once again know birth after birth but before death?

i say: by finding "it" in the mechanism. by pursuing what is wonder filled and endless. but not perfection, nor eternity. rather motion and paradox. these will teach us birth and death, love and beauty, and many other, far more pertinent things.