Sunday, June 30, 2013

Neither a Secret nor Real

The man without shoes sleeps through the night - for once - and wakes only mildly sad. The light of summer is veneer and who walks across it owns the density of a rose petal. Swallows are rarely still. And some doors - if opened- release tides that will sweep you away.

Thus coffee - reheated - and a slice of bread to dip in it. Certain train stations in Europe are unchanged in memory which - if one is paying attention - is reason enough not to trust memory. He cups his hands and pretends he holds a firefly, which is reason enough not to trust the man without shoes. Certain melodies of Beethoven attend as always and we are lifted accordingly.

It happens from time to time that one can't say what the next sentence will be because it is hidden and hard to find. My profession is building lake side cottage for those who don't know that their secret longing for a mansion is neither a secret nor real. By the brook, certain other memories arise and are impossible to manage because of how readily they ease into manifestation. Good morning indeed.

I have always feared the illusion of permanence and those who are invested in it. Near waking there was a bad dream - it involved me failing publicly and spectacularly at something - and in the dream I simply said, "it's a dream and so I'm not going to get worked up about it" and so it was ended. Waking tends to be accompanied by visions of service, often quite specific. How brief the backyard roses are, and other loves as well.

All desire arises from a belief in scarcity. Who nears the peak does not return to a lower ledge to celebrate its existence. I fell asleep in tears because there was no body next to me that I could pull close - no silly private jokes to say, no expansive spiritual ideas to examine. So you push on, you try to be kind and open, and you trust the silence and only that.

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