By Monday; some of the thoughts and ideas elude me and I sit as a quiet observer. This non-conditioned moment is just a phase of brief snippets that will soon continue. However; what is within which is temporarily buried will unearth itself about the evening (or thereabouts) and all I can see is the visage of a ghost. I convince myself that the missing idea is redundant and a sudden sadness kind of lingers momentarily until the music unwinds itself from the tendrils of yesteryear—the darkness pours into an empty cup and is swallowed by the recipient of aesthesis.

A cold whimper of January’s breath contains a zephyr of charnel thoughts. In succinct mutters; incessant additions fall poetically upon heavy off-white sheets of waiting canvass.

Soon, an afflux of verbs and punctuation caress the empty spaces while their ghosts take a seat. The lowly and lugubrious afternoon drops a doorway in the center—from there you step in and raindrops of shimmering colors wash back the dullness and down into an oubliette atmosphere you fall. Another door appears and the thing walks in and says; “Fair traveler of the lands, walk this way … You have safe passage here.”

Observer, you go into this other new universe and gentle shifts of space and time glitch scene upon scene in your peripheral view. ‘This is home’ you think as the watery floor billows out from your step. Here you can walk on water, and turn the rain into the sun. Mountains can be shaped into stars, and clouds into birds. You are in control, and nobody else can take that from you.

Those eluded thoughts of Monday no longer prevent you; reach out and fly … fly into the universe of the utmost subconscious proportions fair traveler.

(Some inspiration ♪)


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