A usual summer day’s sandstorm had past by, leaving the plants in my tiny garden as if descending into their grave. Washing down the plants. Being hardly attentive to Tanya. She was going on about her job at the school and how everything would ave been different if she had decided to work at the local newspaper instead. Life was like dust and heat piled on everyday with a yearning of rain, trying to remember what it was really like to have the aliveness in her bones. The split life like many others of the repressed yearner and the mechanized worker.
The self on its own spur slips along the same way, ever deeper. An interruption, a wave of inspiration from without the bubbled self stimulates and brings the slipping self back from the precipice.Back from the edge into the mundane. From the gorge onto the cliff…
is a snapshot . a momentary capture of a few wavelengths, many missed in between. the prism of emotion/feeling accentuates some and the others are lost forever. When I look back I just have a constructed truth, but its not the whole truth. A speck called me in this infinite expanse, capable of assimilating no more than a whit, only that I dream the whole of the grandness could live in the whit.
If i get the core of the light I see a path/a hole into the real truth, a la Alice in wonderland, been through, I get to know myself, myself without the worldly noise.