he says meditation is like tumbling into fantasies, like falling out of bed and you control the dream. he has a glass jar-brain, all clear, the membrane like moon shine on the water. it all makes perfect sense, he says.
mine are all muddy. I’m falling ahead of myself, unable to keep up with my self-made dreams that sprawl over the bed sheets, up the wall and out of the window. so unreachable. and the black stains on the wall that remind you of the things you never did.
the concepts are all jumbled up and awkward. I stitch together past and present into a ragdoll with a thread-thin smile and blocked eyes.