waking life

ceiling -

curtains cloud the sun -

contours separate the painting

from the wall -

“what time is it?” -

but I don’t check the phone.

I lay there, thinking nothing,

and stare at cracks in the ceiling,

not wishing I was back dreaming

but not too excited either.

blanket and bed's better in the morning

than in the night - cement cold, cement hard;

so I coccoon myself further,

not because I want to go back to sleep

but because thoughts start pattering

on diner windows and I start

acknowledging the refracted worlds

within each drop and streak.

from laundry to coffee -

day's to do list -

visualize each and every one.

mannerisms, ticks, the whole shebang,

flicker dimly on a projector screen

inside the head.

so far out, I'm gone.

I'm not in bed anymore.

I'm drinking coffee.

I'm doing dishes.

I'm cleaning my room.

I'm buying groceries.

I'm -

- back in bed.

mindfulness is a muscle.

writing helps to stay present.

out of nowhere, not of my own accord,

I get up,

but not because I wanted to,

but because the sun rises,

and because roses know when to let go,

and because blood vessels of black bears beat

bass rhythms of the season,

and because hatchlings crawl and struggle

with sand-sprinkled grins,

shaming icarus as they charge

towards the horizon over white valleys

of thunder waves,

and because we're wired to do the same.