I gaze at an image, though not a picture, a vision,
Its shape is obscure, it has no clear definition.
Its centre lacks solidity, it is all smoke,
Or clouds or steam. There is a thing,
Extending hands out of the smoke, I can see its eyes,
They're deep and colourful, psychedelic intense psychotic, knowing.
It had feet in leather sandals beneath the clouds,
And the lower parts of a wicker cane chair.
I talked with him, he wanted to know what had happened,
He could see his lovely world.
I'm an author.
We can say by metaphysics that our lives are planned and predictable, though seeing the events and situations in our lives in the reality of what they are ontologically there is no interpretation of them that implies greater meaning. From a nihilistic point of view we do not have any lives and there is no meaning. So this is about my views on life.
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