We are animated by a force that inhabits this shell, bound to it.
Sitting outside as the storm gathers, on the outer edge of it: thinking that all things have their edges good or bad, where they begin.
The stream of consciousness is real, our perception is sharpened by stillness. You can drink from it and feel refreshed.
They say the body is the outermost layer of the mind.
Like passing through the atmosphere and trying to see outside the plane, but it’s hard to make out anything below or know when we’re going to land.
So sadly defined by work, cut out like a bowl.
We are living this life where everyone we encounter is just a version of ourselves, the same as in dreams. How long have we been imagining shapes in the clouds? Or telling stories?
I went down into the quarry and my calves burned coming out.