I’ve been off the grid, yet fully connected. Solitude surrounded by big institutions and millions of peoples. Fresh air and suffocating city heat. Silence, yet, I can’t stop talking to myself.
Pen to paper/finger tips to key board hasn’t been so easy as of late. There has been so much static fuzz to all the words that are coming forth. Meanings within meanings, creating both enormous depth or barley-there shallowness that are humming around in time with the constantly running AC.
The noise is soothing, so much so that I wake in the night just to get an extra ear full.
Prakriti: the foundation. The moving, the stillness, and the destruction; life as we know it. The constantly shifting movements of our existence. The ever flowing river the yogis say, but in my current situation it’s the air con that won’t stop singing it’s tune of everything and nothing
Deadlines have become moot in these long summer weeks. Spring time was spent planning/unplanning summer, and now summer is planning/unplanning the upcoming autumn. There is a consistency in the inconsistent; this new companion I didn’t want, but is tagging along for the unforseeable future. The hang-er on-er that knows no better. Stay a little longer, I’ll make some tea. It is a bit warm, so I’ll chill it; I guess you’re available all afternoon, then?
roadside yogi 