There's the door. You're always the 1rst out of it.

"Life as we know it is full of sorrow" begins a book introducing the 8 fold path in meditation. I'm inclined toward thoughtless rosy-colored mourn if to discriminate abyssal memories in lure of more unanswerable things. Lumbering upon a bridge toward attention on sober declamations everyone knows this is no where. The rivulet willowy melting air on a lonesome highway seems to promise furling travelogue, breath bound in colorless grasp and space, into release where I live to meet point B, & everyone else evermore certain on the horizon's two threads. The bread of my brow has all the lament mushed into her symmetry. My cultural intensity is time corralled in the well-being of my history, while no one gets where I've come from: I'm programmed to imagine a solitarian tear out plenitudinous sky-fountain origins. With no acquisitive motive, I & We, conscious crowd could answer that--I'm no more than a splay of sentient furniture dumped into an outward fact of annoying mean & maya.************** ****I'm outside. Outside society--a long-distance run a ways away. Rock n Roll is self-realization effort. No help, not really if I'm equus/ashvin led, hand on my shoulder, and I'm alighted to dull air. Air is my existential garment. Futile and transparent. Dull air, sometimes magnetic & unusual: D. Byrne lyricked on Fear of Music, "some people never had experience with air." Chorus: "Air air, Air, air." I'm ill to suspire in it less than I'm cloud clarion, in suspense. The rivulet willowy melting air on the lonesome highway seems to promise furling travelogue, breath bound in colorless grasp and space, into release where I live to meet point B, & everyone else evermore certain on the horizon's two threads. **********************Life is a conversation. One has all the intonation a persona, her long ends, are lent in sum narrative becoming. So what of no content & space & time alight like big dream floats take notice? The mantram of sounds miscellany, arrival, the word apple having fallen--it's fallen and ready to imagine in its tree epicurean counsel: the diet of consciousness, what one frames as resource & experience immured in its taste, sensorial power.*************************You spit in the sky, it fall in your eye. You keep a snake in one basket. What is more lending of change, likeness or image? Prohibitions in fascinan's potency like hot shade, like cornerstone exquisite dust in paradisaical silence, the tea leaf clouding one its 4 libations. Equality is a state of mind once her couch of consciousness burns in patient conviction seat of awareness took breaking an ascendant's legs akimbo, breath reduced to air, air stolen out to blue of the dome filtrating temporal denizen song of songs to the lash and mummer of space.*******************Grandmother spider finds her way thru my eye. The fly above me, I'm sitting on this fb blue colored carpet, tho' space pre-cyber, guffaw alliterate, maggot brain salah al-badan (=judeo-arabic for liberation of the body.) Wander arboretum only for strange strangling grasshopper, in her skillful effort to burn in my chest, show me breathless stars, fiery lungs.****************I need the perfect sands to lay my head. I know where. It is actually a place, golden colored ground of consciousness. A place of my making, 5yrs of this now 8 yrs later thrum relationship bullshit. My basement flat, cave transcience with its birth opening. Her conversation cloud sluice post-Orthodox word technology aero ride bombast, all a bored yiddishkeit, and still her mischief and damn her stillness, & my flight.********************Egressed certain toxic emotionally nigh margins, putting the menu down. Talking to serpentine sundarban waterside Zindapir (Saint of the Sind or Indus) like in a daydream V.S. Naipaul, Rory Stewart, Alice Albani styles the telegraphing East. Green deep where infecting eyes transparency yet past glassy lost surface, agency must live monadic and elemental, creative like a window cutting off abyssal gait, Rilke conversant meeting his peon & nurtured teacher/student on his supra-temporal path meandering animist spirit bodies of water musterion. Where else but in the insistence of water merciful and esteemed paradisaical--it is Tawwasuf/Sufi.*********************Scratch toasts, All things are possible when you are really unable. Some say, & agree, to be self-aware be happy. It is also other and sustenance. And while happy nothing happens (say "without" so benevolently) but star assemblage and intramural common sense contest with dream. Sounds arriving louder, in the corner of an ophan's room, the circular angel human market place augury seat of awareness overstanding of expression. In colors brighter.***************My old Russian professor's wife came to the shop this am. I see a rare life - the while I spent around campus post vagaries toward a degree rather exercising likely academic goals, but intoning certainty she mirrors in collusion, the reach of my well-being if only alliterative, bookish contemplation. I step into a magnetic web, reduced to lost time, viable tho' if episteme shows itself. She's a teacher--that's all I need to know. Finality of some peak language visibility in all but 10% of what mind contests in wandering sea thru the skein of sky chrome on her surface--I would take in every paltry ocean-drop over again to suspire in mindful days enlisting thoughtful shelter on this ply-career in all the reading I tease out of halcyon kaleidoscope.