know me by these means

the mood that is made of momentum, 

has no keynotes of particulars.

it stubbornly floats on awakeness.

it's self-forwarded on sensory-aware.

immediacies are its next in-breath.

if this was a descriptive diary page,

it would be written,

with somewhat meaningless nouns and verbs.

it is composed of the philosophy,

of a readiness, 

for a here-to-there.

it is the wear on affronting attention,

the press of passivity to particulars in passing.

it's a float in an otherwise current situation.

it has the appearance 

of the courtesy of self buoyancy,

but nobody is ever expected 

to self-test the workings of that premise.

anonymous has its phases, 

in the course of the day.

one always has available the discourse of recall,

as if no moment in passing is ever spent in vain.

this is not a vegetative or somnambulance in passing.

it exemplifies, 

when breath is taken away from the action,

for there is a sense of oneself

and yet unrealized,

when one is a stand-in,

even in their own narrative,

as a bystander to their own causes,

a second opinion yet without any self-doubt.

for no gift-wrapping of self-experience is expected.

complimentarianism is neither here nor there.

all of the attention apparatus of experience

is in and of intermittent pauses. 

breathes of intake, 

are occasionally from other moments of time 

and are involved in an inner silence debate.

the weave of whatevers ongoing is passively observed.

it is a sensory commentary, 

without the need of remarks.

it is the procession of spirit, 

without demonstrative needs.

it is the presumption of soul, 

without identity declared,

for integrity has its own means of containment, 

far beyond personal account,

as livingness spent without creative human endeavor. 

there is no dialogue to foster inner motivation.

the story is telling of itself, 

without otherwise narration

or an audience sense of self in reflection.

for this mood has no method of grip or glance,

no highs or lows or impressions deeply made.

it cannot be cast.

at best, you could say,

the stream of itself carries on.

it's been there, 

since immediately after birth.

it has always had the brilliancy of backdrop potential.

it will be there, 

for the ceremonious death-do-us-part.

no one then knows of its capacity for carriage there on.

beam me up, 

may have been an undisclosed working premise,

for one's entire life.

it may be a bright spot in the being,

without any perimeter settings,

as just bright enough, 

for other dimensional ambiances to consciously occur,

for the inner movement of spirit, 

without any physical evidence or cause.

never crowded or crowding,

but always a background presence in passing.

yet kinship in that medium, 

always has it gatherings.

and they have no temporal or spacial concerns.

they may even be the essential drivers of being

and yet, get no credence or motivational credit. 

this is all made up of a mood that exudes,

but never comes to demonstrate.

it has presence that is hardly perceivable. 

but if intimacy has an original source,

know me, 

by these means . . .