The Raisin gathers sweat from my fingertips
They are greasy now.
The dead relative of the grapes in my ruck sack;
excreting final fluids onto my confused hand.
It is shriveled and ugly.
A seam runs along its edge;
And the smell reminds me of Greek dessert wine.
Memories are better than the moment,
no matter how mindful you are.
You can’t change the moment you are in,
If it’s shit and doom ridden,
then it’s shit and doom ridden.
And the past laughs at me and disappears,
And I am holding a fucking raisin,
wondering when happiness might have been real?
I choose now, to ignore the raisin.
I don’t want it in my mouth.
It’s so soft from my heavy fingers.
So I don’t eat it and it’s memories.
One can not
Be mindful on demand
Until Siddhārtha Gautama is within.