Dream about renting out rooms in my mansion.
I am, and the lights are on. Consciousness, that’s all.
Nothing more to it. No goo-ruuu nonsense petals emphatically pronouncing the flower.
Awake, aware of appearance.
There’s predictability and pattern to what appears, but that’s just the bumpers, the rails, the rules of this particular groundhog game.
And it doesn’t have to be groundhog or Palm Springs with Bill Murray or Andy Samberg.
You can deny that game, go to bed a dead man, arise a king, and see all the little miracles the new day presents.
It’s all yours to interpret, and you are very hard to kill.
And if you die, you’ll probably be less annoyed. But no one really knows.
So maybe just don’t be annoyed to begin with.
Then neither life nor death will be a relief. No rest for the rested.
The surrendered wake deeply.