experience as a truth-teller

it is as if I asked of experience, 

to be a truth teller,

as if experience was my best friend.

you know,

always around,

did lots of stuff together,

always listens, 

even to my inner thoughts.

mostly in agreement,

treated me as if I was the star.

hardly ever interrupted,

went just about everywhere together.

never thought of myself,

as the evil twin.

reality is sort of an innocent menage a trois,

not sexually implied,

but a threesome reality ongoing.

just me, and my witness of me,

and experience then of the ongoing.

sure, there was always inner dialogue,

me and my inner witness.

how could there not by?

sort of siamese-like,

and use of a quicker language,

just between the two of us. 

doing from comprehension to understanding.

reality, experience-wise, 

was alway a third party in presence.

sort of there,

waiting for attention paid.

not really a bother, 

but sort of a bother,

with some sense of looming insistency.

generally neighborly,

but somehow sharing the same sensory house.

experience is like a lazy-boy confident,

and we, the other two of us, as me,

are always just waking up from the intimacy of we, 

me, and my awakened-ness as my mind. 

and experience is right there.

just the three of us, ongoing.

but experience, as a truth-teller,

doesn't always get what I am asking.

experience has its conventions.

and I and my inner awareness,

sometimes seem like foreigners 

to a somewhat promised land.

we then get glitch crazy inside.

my inner witness can be cool

but my recognition witness gets sideways.

some much agitation and alarm,

coming my way.

energies in a language base, 

I don't relate to.

can't decode much of it either.

and apparently can ask experience to explain.

so I sort of step back

and let the two of them work it out.

experience is what it is.

but awareness by its means,

struggles to the point of oppression

or denial, or ongoing consternation.

I await.

my awareness seems to have 

an ongoing short attention span.

and soon the moment passes,

though not easily forgotten.

and so I fundamentally live with

a closet full of not-forgottens.

door is usually closed.

and so experience as a truth teller,

is not as if aging equals wisdom . . .