Centered piston thinking. Round opens to round, and down and up and down. Sometimes, that’s just the way it is. Firing on all cylinders, one might say. With discretion never before employed to this degree. We see…only what we are meant to see…. The seeing brings gifts, and traumas, and little buddhas in their teflon traps waiting for the moment, being the waiting, listening to the days, the nights, the opportunities pass by.
Such spaces hold only those who fall there. No desire brings one willingly. Only suffering, or wishful remorse, or subsequent alienation, or passive-aggressiveness, or lack of motivation, or subtle ignorance, or shallow forethought. And then there are those that learn how to say no. No becomes as no is. No suddenly draws all the fire, all the ire, all the murk and mess. But it shields itself in its own bliss, laughing off the gusts of experience like water off a duck. One must pick their experience after all. Perhaps the level of experience? Perhaps. Most likely not, as level is as level does, and frequently level only means: mis-interpreted.
Phantoms.
Loose among the reeds, scattering among leaves, listening like thieves. Dream spaces left upside of all, wishing finally to fall. In fall. IN fall. Inward fall. Inward sprawl. The dive down in takes its own spin, and later stays strung out and listing, waiting for the proper call. At your wall. The listening takes upwards, and inwards and finally outwards. Uncontained, unwieldy, unforgiving. Lastly living the place of peace.
