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“What shall I do?” the ego asks
And wonders night and day
About a thousand varied tasks
To pass the time away.

The mountains it’d like to climb,
The seas it wants to sail…
And yet, within the shortest time,
Each preference has turned stale.

But consciousness already knows
That nothing needs be done,
And yet it smells a wayside rose
That’s basking in the sun.

And that’s why I’m so “aimless”, too –
I’m more than happy loving you.

Photo by Robert Gramner on Unsplash

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