The Mind's Limitations Are Its Freedom
The mind has a power which is unusable
which is its real power. What else but the mind
senses the final uselessness of the mind?
How foolish we were, how smaller than what we are,
were we to believe what the mind makes of what
it meets. Whatever the mind makes is not.
You know there are always messages we find
--in bed, on the street or anywhere, and the mind
invents a translation almost plausible;
but it hasn't any knowledge of the language at all.
Sometimes the translations are cryptic in themselves.
I read them in wonderment. It is a wonderment
not usable. What could it all mean?
The mind does this. I stand in awe of the mind.