everything is looking radically different once again.
I see the sameness of differences
continually happening.
no two experiences are a matching set.
the novelty of differences
is a kind of boredom.
comparative truth is
at ad nauseam ongoing.
experience is an inner voiced chatty-cathy.
what is with the ever monologue?
I have to go to another room inside myself,
far away from the chatter and blab.
oh, to live in a self-consciousness,
where conclusions have
short attention spans.
I asked for trees
and a hammock slowly swinging,
a partial sky
with placid exposure looking back.
I wanted gravity to hug me
by the swing of it
and for visual focus to come from distant
all the way into my eyes closed.
but still in color-blends
and curvaceous sight.
here is an inner stream
that passes through me.
it has visuals and muted sounds.
we are buddies, now and then.
I don't regard this as experience
but more so as secret friends.
it's a world of worth,
without comparisons or otherwise account.
I figured, we each have one,
somewhere within the morass of it all.
I'm not saying sanity
but I am with spirit in mind
and asking for heart with soul . . .
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