Lucid Living

I am dreaming, perhaps. Schrödinger’s cat keeps darting around the peripheral of my vision, per se. I am tripping balls, this living and experiencing. I am psychotic and completely sane.


So, I can have the world at my finger tips. I am not claiming to be God, but I am of All so inseparably that All is within me. That All can be mentally flexed, somehow. It is a simple question of what is conscious and what is subconscious.


The breath is the apex, the very precipice of the conscious fulcrum. The balancing point, where the scales are equal and level, with consciousness on one end, subconsciousness on the other. Lucidity, in fact, is the tipping of the scale’s weights. Consciousness surpasses subconsciousness.

I believe this is done in times of déjà vu. Only, it is done unconsciously. Ironic? Or just coincidental?


Coincidences, I have begun to speculate, are another conscious conspiracy. It is the subconscious working and dripping its repercussions into the conscious field called awareness.


So, I can have the world at my finger tips. With this power called coincidences, I have found the mind’s tendons with which to flex the universe. I am the puppet master, but I am also the puppet on the string, or part of it. I can dance, but I am in complete subconscious control over the movements as well.


Freedom of Will is a higher question than “am I in control of my self?”


It is a question of “is the weather gloomy because I’m blue, or am I blue because the weather is gloomy?”



He is nameless and


so He is not he,

but It.

Not it, but All.


People, like books, only have something neat to say when given the right amount of attention. You can ignore them, judge them, scorn them, critique them, and you would get nothing but the monotony of repeated alphabet! Or, you could love them and find the most precious jewels that are formed by thoughts and words.

Spirituality, like religion, is a simple word that fictitiously describes what we cannot pretend to define: nature, God, the universe, unconditional love, energy, original source. We use these words for convenience of speech, nothing more. To really live these words, you must learn to see language as a primitive way of understanding. We think lowly of the beings that cannot share in our patterns of speech. How many times do we laugh at our animals for responding indifferently to “come here, stupid!”?

There are these pretty little languages called emotion, but really cannot be called anything in our thought-to-word state of mind. Reading this, you are drinking in my thoughts. Think without using words. Listen, for a moment, without categorizing each sound.

Classical music is the most fascinating of thriving creatures. If you do not memorize the names of the instruments, nor do you visualize them as they play their song, then the music truly comes alive. It gives you a gift in a way that I am giving you a gift right now, through the passing of thoughts.


We have walking around with us creatures that slither out of the shimmering twilight of our dreamlands. In the golden chills of a perfect harmony, a musical druid comes into our hearts and tickles our ribs with warm laughter.

But I digress. Words are meant to be harvested and prepared in a way that nourishes our hungry hearts, but recently I’ve been in the fields strangling them with iron teeth. The chemicals that I try to put into these words leak into my lucid days and poison my appetite.

Moments where a light opens inside me and my fingers twitch for the keyboard… these moments are slippery. Contemplation is my mistress and music is our bedroom. At the dusk of my sentence, if there is no crescendo in my heart nor applause in my mind, it gets burned by the sunset of my delete key. In the beginning there was a blinking line. Then, a voice opened the void and said, “let this blinking thing write!”

That is why I stopped my train wreck of thought above.

Characters dance between my ears from the familiar notes of a loving melody. The concordant dance between tires on asphalt and speakers on silence is my ballet. I am merely an astonished audience as full scenes are produced behind my eyes and between my ears. Lights reflecting from the black of the streets bow to the shivering ballads that tap on my ear drums.

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God’s Song

These laments that I mispronounce with fluidity of tongue and pen are the spectrum of color playing tricks with the white light of the page. To me, these misspells are life: you either love what your doing or it becomes a prick under the finger. Sometimes, everything I do seems wrong. Things happen to me that I curse under foggy breath. These are just the days of shadow under the Sun, the sand left from the ebb of the tide. Negativity being wrong or bad is child’s play with words. Negativity is simply the other end. It is not something you should duck from or hide under the tabletop, where illusions are served, in reflex to. It is as natural as the rain.

Before the Sun comes out, you might want for it. Those nights of stagnate sleep make the grog of morning seem to shine in your headspace of anticipation. I eat breakfast while thinking of the day before me. I wonder what I’ll find, today, hidden under some stone unturned. I vow to be the one to find it. When I bend my back and stretch my legs to lift this unturned rock, I find underneath it a simple reminder.

            You are not what you are, but you are what you are not.

            When did poetry climb into the dampness where the insects hide? I swear to you that what you are searching for is already taped to the back of your head. You simply need others to tell you in words what you have had all along.

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