Unidentified

You are only as good as you think you are. Difficult though it seems, the secret to being content is to know that it is the mind alone that holds the seed to all actions and also is the vulnerable ground that bears its consequences. Every other thing ever sensed is only a trick of light, sound and friction on the senses. Intuition, the much talked about sixth sense, comes with experience. Strong, 'powerful' intuition comes as a result of repeated experiences of successful outcomes of that intuition.
Everybody has minds that act similarly and project the same pseudo-real world (that includes every single object of thought excluding themselves) to blindly trusting senses.
All events happen in that projected world and then one loses true sense of identity because the outside of the mind is such a convincingly beautiful projection. Every single thing perceived by the mind is merely that; a perception.
Even right now, while a myriad of planets and stars change positions and create patterns in the skies, most likely oblivious to our existence, we gaze through telescopes in wonder and some of our more accomplished fellow humans study these patterns and speculate. Speculate whether these bright celestial bodies are physically reachable, which is to say, not entirely pointless in my head at present, but a delightfully meandering pass time. Change is generally thought to be welcome and good.
There won't ever be any dearth of change. Familiarity and constancy on the other hand dance in harmony with  being content and happy.
These musings seem to remain in my head at all times. But till there is clarity of thought,no amount of thinking these thoughts will make them familiar enough to be comfortable thinking about.

With that note, I end my convoluted, 5 in the morning mind refreshing.

mind garble song

Someday, I hope to get demystified by those intriguing times when the mind seems to reflect a medley of dramatic skies looming overhead and songbirds that refuse to sing.  To identify with that mood is to imagine standing at the water's edge under a red canopy while spirited crashing waves clap against a gradually eroding rock. Funnily though, it is not melancholy that you find at the surface. What reflects on the face is a placidly blank composure with occasional bright smiles and giddy headed laughing that hurts in the elbows. Somehow. So splendidly messed up. Like the dark dungeons of thought are decorated by a happy person that sings about squirrels. and then there is the mildly felt presence of a musically thumping heart. Then arrives the sudden longing to read simply worded poetry. It is indeed remarkable how the mind holds it all.
Sleep is a foreign experience.

When the only way to feel better is to stop thinking. That, and perhaps also that beautiful sense of getting pulled further into the ocean with every next wave while standing still on wet sand.