May I allow myself to slow down

Of people there was hurrying to & fro / Numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam, / All hastening onward, yet none seemed to know / Whither he went, or whence he came, or why / He made one of the multitude, yet so / Was borne amid the crowd as through the sky / One of the million leaves of summer's bier.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

We are akrita phula The indistinguishable masses And this striving for individuality Is a ubiquitous shuffling of the whole An endless back-and-forth Endeavour for self-expression

Now you are forced To think fast on your feet Linear and logical thinking That delivers immediate solutions To well-defined problems With ever more clever solutions

Exponentially accelerating thought Is a constant barrage of sensory data That overwhelms the self system's ability To delay sensorial flow—mere milliseconds Essential for sequencing and ordering The apprehension of reality

This compulsiveness is a lostness For there is no getting to Whether to God, or Godlikeness, Or even deliverance, but only Moments of unknowingness Without expectation

To speak, read, breathe, Think and act slowly is to Admit helplessness and take The initiative of stepping aside To where you can help yourself— The one truly conscious movement