An
observant midwife in our minds is auspiciously birthing recognition, bonding
with each new experiential birth into neuro-stone. This procession is grossly,
our perpetual world. Our future alphabet is forming in this birth canal of
acknowledgment. We are each one of these children, fumbling towards speech, finding
learning bunks in the mind. Yet we only want to be golden molasses reaching out
for the incoming light, but
thought sees to it as repetition's face, gifting us otherwise. We share our
awake-ness with this clutter
of
memory-hand-me-downs. In desperation, we dream
in
the dark closets of sleep, with time of their own doing, knowing there is a
sense of self not usurped by recognition, a life free of tending and retention, unoccupied
by straight laced cognition, featuring a perfumed existence with no shelf life
towards lingering. Just
the one of us, the one of all of us, and the consort of
unknowable simplicity, the midwife to our minds,
the
spirit in residence, birthing recognition from the dream of being . . .
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