To Be or Not to Be — That IS the Question.

As time grows on I become more mindful of my experience. I stopped trying to think about myself so much and focus more on each moment as it flutters on.

It’s easy.

Right now I feel: a sweet tang as I munch on some fresh golden raspberries and blue berries in my morning oatmeal; each bite folds the mushy oats on top of itself. Yuck! A bad raspberry. It tastes gushy and dissolves on my tongue; the rot seeps through my taste buds and I work to quickly swallow the flavor.

I could go on and on about my moments. It’s the little things that help me be okay with floundering in my own existence.

Thinking about my self rips me down.

I’d rather think about my breath and seek the sun.

My thoughts objectify those with a consciousness and I can’t see them as I do my eyes in a mirror; although I try.

Instead, I relate through common experiences:

Smiling in the light of the sun. Looking at someone who is feeling a song with you. Touching someone. Feeling their warmth. Their life. That’s when I see you.

My attempt to discover myself was lost in a sea of change and now I only mean to float.

Is that so wrong? A congenial idea for sure, but it’s not practical.

And is that so wrong?

Who’s to say?

All I know is that I’m learning something as I get older. Beyond the myriad life lessons we encounter from being, I began to grasp my place in this world.

I don’t have a purpose.

I don’t have a destiny.

I pass butter.

There’s nothing wrong with it.

Everybody is playing into a grand facade. We clutter our headspace with thoughts and distractions because we’re afraid of the silence and dealing with the inevitability.

Why!? We want to scream into the sky and once we did but nothing ever responded but mother nature and her gilded rain that came to flood us.

Quiet your brain.

Listen to the birds.

The sound of your heart. Take a deep breath.

Can you hear it? Be at one with the moment. Like the birds. Like all the animals.

It feels good to be.

Humans are an animal too, you know? We were dragged into bashfulness by evolution; it’s embarrassing.

…But it’s okay. It’s all okay.

In my dreams I breathe the water and end up with nothing left to drink.

My eyelids are the theatre curtains upon which my dreams manifest. I’m always looking about, trying my hardest to be aware.

“Where am I?” A question you can always rightfully ask.

(Never there.)

Tell me, if I asked you to, would you wake me up?

What am I writing for? Why do I feel the need to talk about this? Why do I want to share it with others? Why am I always asking questions? Why can’t anyone enlighten me?

Why do we sleep? Why do we dream?

Why am I going to die? Why do we fear death?

Why am I me?


These questions dim in potency when I see them before me. That’s why I write them out. I need to see my conflict splayed in squiggles; it comforts me.

At least no one is being singled out. At least we can face our mortality together, smiling in the light of the sun. Or while looking at someone who is feeling a song with you. We can die while touching someone. Feeling their warmth as they feel you turn cold.

Your death. That’s when you will finally know something or nothing.

In the hands of time our spirit is absolved.

Will you wake up? Is this whole life a dream? A ripple follows a ripple; are we nearing our source? Will we wake up from this dream and get ready for a day in a reality in which we are whole? Will we ever reach inception?

I can’t believe it ends with this life. Do we not shine enough in this darkness?

Well, energy is neither created nor destroyed, so if they can’t see how bright I am after I fade away, then I at least hope someone can hear me in the wind.

…but just in case, will you wake me up?