Waking up with a lung full of breath, beaming with silent excitement. No bird song, just the low hum of an HVAC system. I am a mirror of the sun, a butter knife of the eye, and spoon of the heart. Left alone to my own devices I’m the device goblin, using them up before I can even call them my own. Who said freedom had anything to do with having nothing to do? Janis said freedom is another word for having nothing left to lose. I say freedom is a warm pillow. I have never dreamt of the mundane. My dreams always seem to place me in the subterranean underbelly of my cosmic pulse. Bubum… bubum… bubum… beauty forms in the silence between. I need a fresh start, a factory reset, a cleaning of the circuits, a kiss of the third eye. I tripped up along the way and now I’m self-replicating clones of worry and despair. My higher self sits by the river, always smiling and asking “what the fuck is he doing?” (he knows, but it always helps to vocalize the absurd). One day I’ll embrace the stillness, like the lower gut and its ladder to the heart. I paint the peripherals as to conceal the true color of our infinite expanse. I’m so tied to doing and being, as if life is this voluntary competition, half my effort going toward winning, the other half toward forgetting. I want lush rain forest shaman goddess energy in my gummy vitamins. I want a synchronized beating heart shared between all beings of earth and beyond. I want love not to have so many languages, just one, spoken through synchronicity and vibration. I want warm sand on my feet and the smell of salt. I’ve never left this place. I’ve always stuck with it, never truly gave it my all but haven’t given up either. We leave so much to the imagination as we shroud ourselves with ego tarps, protected from even the faintest hint of God’s breath. I want to open the day like opening one of those magical books in those magical movies, opening to a random page somewhere in the middle, orange glowing dust particles spiraling out from the binding and illuminating the dim space, entering directly into the chest. I want that to be my morning ritual. Even when I arrive, like I have now, to a place I’ve always hoped for, I don’t feel like I’ve arrived. I’m not able to catch my breath, set up camp, harvest the fruits of my own labor to make a cold and refreshing juice or perhaps a smoothie on this warm summer day. The inner engine was taught to chug along, not knowing what it means to be satisfied, to slow to a halt and take in its surroundings (those that typically show as blurred streaks in the periphery). No care for where its been or where it’s going as long as it’s moving forward. For a brief moment beside it (though now far behind) was a lone squirrel perched on the branch of a Spanish oak, holding in front of him like a trophy, a nut the size of his head, and all the joy in the universe had redirected onto his heart – the object he has manifested through countless dreams and waking hours now in his possession, a shining golden beacon of hope and foreverness.
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