The dog seems to be growing – she is alice turning ten feet tall. Reality queues me to focus, watching her in deep sleep, the rise and fall of her chest, black coat co-mingling in shadows of this dim-lit room. The illusion continues, I cannot scientifically justify – her black legs seem to be growing against the cream-colored blanket.
Here I sit, toying with falsehoods, worrying the reality of truths. There seems to be a prism these days in which the light of what is, and what might be, cast the same radiance. Light tricks the optic nerve to interpret inception differently. Is it possible that CTs, MRIs or X-Rays are vast wastelands of false imaging. Are we not seeing what should be seen. A laying of hands can see, why cannot the multimillion dollar machine.
Most interesting to continue to ponder questions, but I’ve come to abhor the question mark. There is something too definitive about it. I’m certain it is just a stage, like when I insisted on using a lot of – - / or when i’d only write in lower case. i was trying (am) to find my voice.
Our voice is always within us. It is our eyes and ears that play the trick hand portending that there isn’t anything there when really quiet riots are going off inside the head. The riot continues as I continue imagining I’m outside when really I’m in. Actually, the foot rests on both sides of reality. Sensory motivation, a scent of pinion pine smoking** has me imaging a dirt road following the shadowed outline of the mountain scape behind an August moon. If there was a way to transport that memory into tonight’s ghost walking, I would honor her heartbeat.
The heart beats slowly. Where are we going. He spoke of a world that we couldn’t see. It was alarming. He couldn’t see anything in his dream. He accused us of turning off the lights. The room was flooded with diffused sun. We wait. We worry. He gets better. He declines. This is not a quality of life for anyone. Healing must begin.
Plant a dream within this pillow and lay your tears upon it to make it flourish. Flowers are beautiful until they die. Detritus takes hold if you don’t empty the oxygen-less water. I prefer to pull flush flowers before they retreat. A perfect striving has always strangled breathing. Never did I know how labored this type of living was until practicing yogic breathing. Hours a day are spent holding my breath.
I miss flowers. I miss the touch of a hand upon my shoulder, the crown of my head, the nape of my neck. Sometimes I forget that I’m alone. Sometimes I question if I’ve ever shared my mysteries. I worry this body is consuming this brain. If this posts makes no sense, no worries, it isn’t reader error, but circuitry breakdown.
Dear self ~ please stop funking the pathways, XO ~ me ~
**Lovely Pinion Pine incense from Light The Earth. Kim & John have the most wonderful store, which you can check out online. You know you are someplace special when stories spill out of people because the energy is just that good.