When
I am shoved out
of
the plane of understanding,
albeit
a trap door release,
a
swoop down with talons,
a
whap upside the head,
or
a push off a crowded curb,
whenever
that door is that door, opens,
I
have never seen that door before
upon
further review.
My
plaintiff 'why me' comes to the door.
My
logic argues that this door, right here,
is
not my door.
But
assuredly it is.
This
is my door of entry
to
a near 'creativity' experience.
What
voice that surfaces from inside me,
is
not all that familiar
but
it is still assuring me.
What
is coming on
is
faster then admissible details justify.
I
don't have time for justifications.
I
have to get on
with
what has a grip on my attention
and
is force-feeding me along
on
the periphery of my awareness.
It
sort of feels like levitational flying
but
I also feel out of control in the process,
like
a need to grow wings.
I
feel at the mercy of what is happening.
I
am getting smaller,
falling
into a vat of victim hood.
A
need to quickly hose off my psyche,
find
a steering medium for my alertness
and
expand my focus.
I
have missed the richness
of
these situations before.
I
need to feed myself
the
richness of this free rise.
Maybe
it is not the adrenal high
I
would search for.
It
is not so experientially extreme
but
any frame-jumping-next-experience
in
essence, offers me the same opportunity.
Understanding
may be
just
my safe hygienic way of non-involvement
as
if identification of anything
is
free passage around it.
How
vacantly can I say
"seen
it, done it, been there"?
How
disenfranchised a lament can I utter
that
does not say
more
about me by response?
When
does my sad commentary
solicit
yet bore my own soul?
Searching
unexpectedly now
through
familiarity's crash-landed debris,
is
the black box my soul,
until I open it . . .
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