Physically painful, existence can be. It permeates the layers with ache, strain and longing. Yet in the next instant it is kind. Soft, safe, full. What a strange trip feeling is. The way that senses imprint upon memory, as images underlined by feeling. A confusing, dreamlike abstraction. A story spun, a narrative woven based on sense impressions. Often times, even, without awareness.
A constant and jarring state of slight discomfort, a future river carving its canyon into the land. Life itself a novelty. / “My life itself was become my amusement and never ceased to be novel” (Henry David Thoreau, Walden).
Sunlight warms my feet as I sit in the doorway.
A worm crawls across the ground before me and then disappears, as it was only a product of my imagination. I laugh aloud to myself in a quiet room. Why do I think this way? There is no diagnosis for having a creative mind, for retaining as an adult a fraction of that which you were soaked in as a child.
“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them” (Henry David Thoreau, Walden).
Surely, I do not wish to build a worm. But there are other things that float about in my headspace, architectural plans in preparation for construction. The Kingdom of dreams.
I watch myself from the inside out. My eyes cannot see themselves, they are themselves. I cannot see myself, though I try through expression. I am myself. Everything tingles with the boundlessness of form dissolved into outer space.
“My soul is not contained within the limits of my body; my body is contained within the limitlessness of my soul” (Jim Carrey, MUM commencement speech).
Everything around ‘me’ is also ‘me’.
Including the bird across the lawn yelling “eeee!” like a squawking toddler in distaste.
The incessant buzzing of bees that have made their home high up in the eave above the screened door where I sit. While I occupy it, the gentleman who owns the house seems to believe they are harmless and essential to the surrounding nature. I beg to differ, finding them an imminent, anxiety inducing ear sore. But to call back Shakespeare, “it’s all what a person thinks about it." Isn’t it?