The limits of necessity

I have no idea how to understand you?
I do not know what it is-you-want!
How can I possibly not understand.
The sweat of my true pulse.
It is the kind of joy that laughter brings,
The mennonite said. . .
I once saw a Blind man trip.
I cannot.
I do not understand.
I do not understand you;
you:
tell me.
It is the sweat of my true pulse.
The kind that feels wet on my skin.
When my skin is wet,
it is only because I sweat.
Do you not sweat tears,
or do tears resemble a drip,
dripping,
dripped-
drap-
drop.
Drop of a tear.
Tear drops streaming down my skin,
from the eyes.
And beads of sweat,
from my forehead
moved downward.
Without gravity forced.
But you cannot "force" gravity,
because gravity cannot be "forced".
But I do not understand.
And that is the pain I feel.
Tears or sweat,
do not need gravity.
I do not feel it is necessary, that gravity
does anything.
That is my law.
The law of necessity to reason,
or to reveal what I do -
do not "understand".
It is my life-long journey through
a series of puddles made of tears.
That reflect my image.
The pain most feel if not to understand
something of material nature and necessity.
However, the material objects that compromise -
my being.
I turn to nothing
- as if a paradox has stopped me.
Like nothing gravity can stand against me.
Gravity has stopped not I.
I do not work for gravity.
Gravity works for me.
And the law of gravity revealed this to me.
That when I stop,
it is not gravity that forced me to be stopped.
I thought to myself,
I am Portuguese,
I am what I want.
It is what I am that I want,
everything in the universe to become
as though my head is on FIRE.
And a train wreckage.
An abandoned wooden ship,
wrecked on the shore of knots.
Where I tied several knots,
on an anchor to find my way back home
with the ship I most thought of.
My head on fire,
and my quality.
My qualities that possess greater necessity.
As my sweat is true-pulsed.
Pumped like oil from beneath my loins,
out.
Pumped like the scent of my breath,
hurls forward without rupturing or
tormenting others like myself.
Not tormenting myself like I do normally,
if I forget to think.
The pleasure is to please
- myself.
That sense of belonging in a world,
that I exhibit nature
and exude my confidence with it.
It is my true pulse.
My sweat is like a nature healing inside of me,
waiting patiently to be errupted.
Quiet streams of thought.
Quite something extrodinary to believe.
And I see witness.
My sweat pumps like the blood in my veins.
My sweat is not forced by gravity.
It is I my true pulse.