Rolling in the light sleep surf of image-wash before waking.
Not camouflage nor random but illogically fluid
in the way I would like to observe
that thinking, my thinking really worked.
I find myself awake but not yet cast
by the overtures of this morning’s immediacies.
For now, this book of next moments has no pages.
Nothing edgy to be turning
from one sense of observation into another.
I found that I slept with a pillow
full of breaths for me to breathe the night away.
Now there is a scrutiny about me
making attempts at the confinement of sensing.
A blue moon is coming soon.
What to make of it before I live in affects as if real.
Does my actual voice count as grounding?
I am ambiguous
caught between presumption or assumption,
as to which is captivating me forward
into next moments haze.
It seems that the white cane of recognition is needed.
All of my reality is the nametag I ware
and respond to for the day.
Why am I the apparel of ‘situationals’
as if this is the relevant confetti over head
or steep-tall graffiti of flat screen confinement
as if that is what matters?
I am in a greeting line where everyone knows me
but I don’t know who I am to them or to me,
reading their responses to find the paragraph
and the line where my place is with them.
Not that that matters but it seems and feels imminent
as a just environment to take up a sense of myself
from there going forward with the pretense.
This is all before the hard edge of me arrives,
puts me into character,
reminds me of where I last left off
and where my next lines come from within me.
Okay I am back.
Whoever said all of that, was either me or not me.
I can’t be bothered right now to make that call.
Just where are my lines to speak
and scenes to play through
and I will be fine as if even to myself for the day
but you and I really, truly, deeply,
spiritually source-sense better . . .
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