And oh the silly battlefield of days before. An hour floating in a puddle of magnesium water. Breathwork and mind stilling in a chair called here and now but in a place called shut up and pretend untruth. Playing with the symbols of the morning on a yellow brick road. Now that’s fun. What else …
I am nothing more, nothing less. Just a ray of light looking into a dirty, pulsing goofball play. At a shit-stained stage with second-rate actors. And the me character assumes it will always be around. The ego is delusional in that sense. There is no time but “lights on” time. And dream within a dream …
Take your time. Take your fortune. A green that’s almost yellow. Sprawling nightshade leaves on a hillside. Purple horns blaring bird chirps past humming bees. Something wild comes this way.
What would I tell you, Philos, from just at the cusp of the grave? You tried too hard. You thought the other actors cared about the part you played, but they were busy playing theirs, hitting their marks and delivering their lines in all seriousness. Your funniest moments, Philos, were when you broke the script …
“It feels like a party every day. Hey Jesse!” said the college boy. I can and do manipulate my emotions at will. When I let go too much, I let Brahman poke me into the distress he loves. When I craft my own emotional responses and narratives, I’m not so much grabbing the tiller as …
