Sloshing and Slipping About

As life is a series of waking up after a dream, sometimes it's hard to tell which is different. 

Waking, sleeping, holding tight to images that mean a difference in the moment.

Our little sizzling bodies taking it all in. We jump, spark, ooze. There's a sudden loveliness about our sloshing and slipping about.

Then the stories. Melodies of sound and vacancy that lift and lower the senses.

Breathing in, taking all. 

Inhaling the silence of our own bodies and accepting the chaos of the world.

Holding this stimulation, just for a moment, as the flow of blood excites every tip of us.

Breathing out, releasing it back. Exhaling our own translation and mixture of the cosmos. Mini mixing bin of spirit and attention.

Between efforts of being and wanting, our breath continues. 

With effort or none at all, escaping ourselves and our industry beyond any measurable account and into a world of just being. 

Only being. 

Instinctually captivated by brights, sweets, and warmth. 

Moving toward sunlight. 

The earth between. Woven within us in streams of light.

I've been sleeping and don't know if I woke up.

Knowing the difference is about pain or effort.

Light still shines and mountains stand tall.

I will crawl between them, then lie down again.