inkfilledmind

here I am sitting under a tree and it is warm and sunlight filters through rustling leaves so the skin of my hand is dappled with shadows that ripple across my fingers and down through the pencil across rough yellow paper detailing transpirations such as when I was walking bright pavement and weaving between masses of people who I imagined were running shiny delicate threads behind them and participating in a vast phantom birds-eye tapestry with bursts of rainbow at intersections and nonsense braille patterns of human confusion and conglomeration from vacant statelessness I moved into a hypercondition whereby my inner eye was assaulted with explosions of pure Vision unmuddied by usual modes of normality and nonrevelation it came unannounced the universe suddenly slowed like I had stepped through a surreal wall of water for is not everything so dreamlike under the surface where sounds and thoughts are distant and your eyes can behold your floating arm in detached wonder a weary man leans against a statue and twirls a lighter in his hand and holds a bright blue demon to his mouth that gives one last flick of its forked tail before diving down his throat do thoughts rush and queue in simultaneity or are they part of one long snaking thought-ribbon which divulges in folds past our mind I have been holding the corner of these loose sheets to keep the wind from disturbing my writing but now my hands are shaking with such excitement that my letters stretch into an indecipherable scrawl a messy lead lifeline which keeps me tied to reality an existence dimmed by the intense burn of Vision have you ever been having a conversation and a thought pops into your head followed by an eerie feeling that they are thinking the exact same thought at the same moment these are not separate thoughts but one which hangs between you like a balloon made of cloud that dissipates instantly and reforms in raindrops over the rest of your lives which hurtle and spin crazily along in an effort to regain what was lost my mind reels half-formed letters splash across the page in an attempt to transform what I had seen felt been as internal brushstrokes projected across an external canvas back into words which could set it off again a bird wheels across the sky and a fallen star picks herself up from the ground twinkle twinkle little star I gaze upon you from afar the world is a beautiful place if you take away the devastation of our lakes and forests the travesty of humanity decorating our screens and papers it is even more beautiful if you keep these things there even murderers sleep gentle sleep