Vision

here i am sitting under a warm tree sunlight filtering through rustling leaves which dapple the skin of my hand with shadows that ripple across my fingers and down through the pencil with which i am recording experiences upon this rough yellow paper such as when i was walking bright pavement and weaving between masses of people who 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 until 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 that came unannounced so that the universe suddenly slowed like i had stepped through a surreal wall of water where sounds and thoughts under the dreamlike surface are so distant and eyes behold your floating arm in detached wonder until air bubbles and questions arise questions like whether thoughts rush and queue in simultaneity or snake along in a long thought-ribbon which divulges in folds through our minds 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 provoking conversation and a thought pops into your head followed by an eerie feeling that the other person is thinking the exact same thought at the same moment but these are not separate thoughts they are one which hangs between you like a balloon made of cloud which dissipates instantly and reforms in raindrops over the rest of each others lives continually racing they hurtle and spin crazily along in an effort to regain what was lost oh my mind reels and half-formed letters splash across the page in an attempt to transform what was been what was felt what was seen what was believed as internal brushstrokes projected across that wide canvas of reality back into words which could set it off again like a bird wheeling across the sky and a fallen star picking herself up from the ground twinkle twinkle little star i gaze upon you from afar sing softly that the world is a beautiful place if you take away the devastation of our lakes and forests and the travesty of humanity decorating our screens and papers and realise it is even more beautiful if you keep these things there indeed even murderers sleep gentle sleep