what travel, what journey?

 nov 23 blog saved in order

what travel, what journey?

I only have the vagaries of inquiry,

but that does not give me wings to fly.

I survey my senses for grubs as clues,

but nothing ignites to a deeper sensing.

it is all incomplete sentences milling about.

even an early morning walk

would have this burden to carry.

there is no topic of delight emerging.

everything mind attentive is a turndown response.

something from deep within has to present,

yet not a worldly view to save me.

it's like emotions are flat-lining. 

they are of their own world,

where no language comes to dress it up in say.

it could be a sea-less lighthouse exposed,

a forest without leaves presenting,

a sandy dessert of lumps 

and bad attempts at windblown folds.

but really not a downer,

just expanse without contextual framing.

sort of back to square one,

on an invisible board.

as being a human and having at experience.

maybe this is the birthright 

of effortless higher consciousness.

there is nothing of a distractive nature,

yet a no sincere interest 

searching for a grab to hold.

this could be unappreciated empty attention,

a potential of inward focused 

waisted on expectations want of deliverance.

there is a confluence in an ongoing presence

yet I am feeling glitch hungry,

in need of an attention grab.

maybe this is habit without the wardrobe,

the engine room without the floating surround,

the fan motor without blade justification expressing.

yet it does feel like glow or bloom in essence.

no trickle-down of topic or discernment seeking frame.

strangely it feels like flying

yet without the sense of wings,

like gravity taking a break from implied presence,

like could I actually meet a person

and feel wholly connected without the use of words?

almost as if space is an excuse to feel separate from,

when actually the physical distance is metaphorical

and there is this etheric that is constantly in play.

not like I am in need of a response,

but fluid without claim may actually exist.

and I live mostly dependent on the cognitive

to get my narrative and projection together.

how strange to sea-less-ly swim,

to wing-less-ly fly,

to conger without thoughts that impact deeply.

like a seventh sense is in override presence.

and all of this is just trickle-down, whimsically spent. 

this feels like silk sheets of written words in passing

while I lie down staring out at empty inwardness,

emotionally untied to reason and outcome.

maybe the best of prayer is like this also,

even though I have no notion of reason for.

it's as if I woke up in a dream,

where I'm in a kayak, weightlessly afloat.

and the current is streaming me.

and I have cloudless sky 

as my referential sense of motion, 

hugged but not held back,

almost invaded by boundary-less-ness,

certainly not body-aware to declare a self.

just expanse as surface

and feel as enormity. 

are we already there? . . .