Sintra, Portugal, a coffee, a view, the language moving around me and I in thought around consciousness and…

There are words that take the mind to places it has yet to know exist.
Continually in conversation I hear the wall where one has stopped listening or looking.
How fast we are to stall our search for the things we believe we want to know when the things we want to know are anywhere but in the place we are looking if we are looking any longer to discover the unknown.

Easily frustration will run through my mind while in conversation with others, only at the closed questions they aren’t asking.

I share this in a way to understand my own mind that writhes in muddles of neuronal puddles.

If I am asleep to these things than where am I to fall, other than upon a dull landscape, when with a few breaths and a clearing of contemplation, the dreamscape will present itself to me once again.

And in this way I too will recognize my blindness, which is a necessity for me.

Speaking of blindness, do see with your eyes closed while wide awake, beyond the eye lids?

What I’m getting at is the unknown of my existence, always.

What lies below stays in its own world bubbling up at moments to tap inklings of existence to my conscious mind.

There’s nothing in it to know, because what is once known no longer exists.

This doesn’t mean much once again.

Getting through to my self is what I’m pushing and pulling at

Writing is for this very thing, a clarifying agent of a kind.

For two nights I sat in dreams curios to know what they wanted from me, what they were telling me, and the crushing of the rocks, the falling of the sky, the driving over cliffs and surviving it all barely, night after night, and always with a touch of unsettling ease, has me wondering what the field is speaking.

We’ll be talking more about this in writings to come.

Dreams as truth tellers…
Fields of existence as vortexes and holders of conversations…
Of environments creating creatures…

And the use of it all as a way to explore life itself.