Little thoughts, like small drops of water falling from a large sky, onto a large surface below, alone, they are but a temporary flit of affectation, and as that, barely so.
Together, the many little things form a great something, and their effect, something greater, surely.
Water cuts, erodes, washes away; water pulls heat out, water delivers heat, water turns to gas and ceases to be water… but for that moment.
And, in so doing, in its change, a truth is revealed, yes, that truth.
A truth so simple, so apparent, once you arrive upon it, one so… inherently so, that I cannot pry myself from it. I cannot turn myself on it, for it speaks to me, and I hear my own voice talking of my having turned my back on myself.
A dream, this morning, something of an apocalypse, something to the effect of time’s passage, of a real and latent worry of that which must be done versus the dwindling opportunity to bring the right into being.
Mmm, of course, though I could see –in this frivolous dream, this fancy, unwilling imagining– the writing on the sky, as it were, I was concerned not with rods and rocks from heaven sent, no.
Rather, I found myself with the soft, warm, sumptuous bosom of a young woman.
I could see her body, and, concomitant to my appetites, physically, carnally speaking, I knew her form was good and right, mmm.
I could sense her general character to be trusting, mmm, but I could see not her face. Or, had I, her visage was of no vista that I have come to know.
Mmm… and I have come to know many such faces.
At the end of the dream, as panic reached something of a fevered pitch, I was still touching her hand, looking at the tanned, supple contours of her flesh; I looked at her, and I wanted to believe in it, in her, in my own terrible mind, at that moment.
But I could not, I did not, for the grooves of love, of its permanent affectation upon the mind, these could be felt, still, even beneath the spell of sleep, of the cage of imagination, opened, turned upon the mind; I knew this was not love, but some empty hunger for it, some hollow desire for… for love? Comfort, perhaps. But, perhaps love.
Probably that meditation is something that I require.
My busy mind… it knows what must be done, the necessary work, even if it is to hold toward the sky, an opened umbrella, offering no true protection against oblivion, of what falls from the sky, what rods and rocks and special light from the constitution, the configuration of this place.
And yet, I give in to such secondary pursuits as the open investigation for love, trust, for human connection, cosmic communion.
Have I shared good thoughts, this day? Mmm, perhaps not. Though, I have spoken, and I should like to speak again.
Like the first run in a long while, sharing thoughts as this, it typically begins quite painfully, relatively fruitlessly, only to improve with each iteration, with each consequtive attempt.