I want to tell you that I dreamnt of a ghost last night. She was lanky, tall and translucent. She represented a whimsical, not yet bogged down part of me. She walked down the street in her own purposeful glory.
Little covered her physical body. Heart exposed, shoulders back, arms swinging in balance with a divine mixture of languidness and control. She was self-authorized; her own redeemer. And today, so am I.
I've got rose petals in the barrel of my gun. My ghosts are seedlings; my dreams, water-colored with the intelligence of progeny.
How about living a life that is soft to the touch? What about occupying yourself, your body, your guts and your silver-lined rib cage with total conviction.
What about commitment, devotion, the art of worship, deities and surrendering to every bit of who you are, and every piece of who you were made to be.
What about commitment, devotion, the art of worship, deities and surrendering to every bit of who you are, and every piece of who you were made to be.
I am inside myself with no desire to peer out of my mental windows. I want to take a look around inside this inner-space. I breathe along side my own thoughts as if they are completely valid; no outer-science necessary in my here and now.
Knees together, nothing held back, whether on the concrete or in the grass.
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