Dead, the center of this month of oscillating sun and rain, the flowers bloom up and wither, wilt, then I must be conscious, conscious of all life and all intent dormant in my sleeping heart. I am carried along by a gravitational pull and barely conscious of the scenery that whirls passed me, all blurred colors and shapes softened at speed. How can there be a center? A center of a month? I am not contained within the month, nor it, me. It is illogic. Only perspective matters, to go climb a rocky hillside, ice the ankle, get dressed and impress yourself with your performance for a day. Go ahead. Do everything all at once. You are the only thing holding you back. Pick up some Farmer’s Market fruits and vegetables, strap on the guitar, finish the old cat painting, stretch the back with a centering yoga poise, with the stray mat and the tan bike to match. How about that lit-mag editing job? Was there ever one available? Whatever the case. Be fully awake. This is not a dream, a pastiche of a past life, a surrogate. This is life unraveling moment by moment and the world will strike you down one day with tectonic force, buried out in the sinking bog, praying by fireside, or the troops will swarm in and take us hostage until execution imminent. Execution is imminent anyway. We have to stand up for our selves if we desire any truth at all anymore.
It all spins around and becomes incomprehensible. Unimaginably fast paced and indifferent.
How does one feel involved without losing oneself?
How do two remain two and not one?