When in high gear - when wired and fired,
Thought takes no breaths.
It motors on from here to here to there.
It has neither concern nor care for the I which owns it.
Thought moves in and out of the unguarded house.
It moves with a stream’s fluidity.
Yet there aren’t any full stops or welcome breaks.
Despite its tones, mind is seamless and lawless.
He hates the dumb, persistent torture-of-thought.
The sleepless has his hell short: from midnight to morning –
Or till he gives up, at last, on illusive sleep
And goes for the morning paper.
So why not turn off?
Expunge all thought (in a Zen kind-of-a-way)?
Why not stop the din which keeps him from sleep?
Insomniac thought is sovereign.
It does its own thing; in its own way;
And does it when it wants to.
When wired and fired
It thinks only of what it wants to think.
No; he couldn't stop it when it’s buzzing like a hive.
No; he couldn't rebuke a thought he neither owns nor controls.
Thought doesn’t belong to his I -
Belong to that void, transcendent part of the head.
Who’s ever seen this I?
Even when eyes close,
The elusive one still evades the inner eye –
That eye that inspects his mental innards.
So give up the fight!
You can’t put a leash on unruly thoughts.
All the mind’s escapees are silent now.
Its beliefs, records and accounts -
All that slept through the dissident racket.
Thought is now awake.
As awake as the birds on that just-opened morning.
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