Waking slowly.
And after all that, the moon is gone – casting a silhouette form around a lone pine tree.
We are on the horizon.
The only things that can remotely be called truth?
The hardness of the ground.
The uprightness of your body in relation to a massive rock beneath you.
The temperature of the air.
The sounds here now.
The brightness of light.
The orientations of the sun and moon relative to the earth.
Wobble.
Precession.
The movement of the seasons.
The breaking down of skin and muscle and bones and hair, and blood and life within this walking vessel.
The dust that’s floating around that we can’t see.
The color spectrum that only a certain species of shrimp can see.
The light of God as a field crushing through atoms and electrons.
Those are the only realities here.
The rest is story layered on story, layered on history on a riddle, gossip, and denial of what is in the here and now.
There are just words in ink scratching on early morning pages of an artist’s journal.
There are only new ideas and new stories, going poof in a subtle indoor breeze, perhaps instigated by a heater vent or a draft under a door.
The doors of perception – opening, closing, inhaling, exhaling, coughing, sneezing, laughing, and sighing.
The doors and the vented ether swirling around them.