Sitting here, it seems strange to revel in stillness when everything inside me wants to burst out, break open, or make a crowd nervous.
Yesterday, I sat in front of a mirror, brushing my hair, and stalled. Stillness again took me by the throat, but kind. Who was before me in the mirror? As though a body was placed here on earth and I was suddenly in it, but unaware of its geography, form, length; even the voice that bubbled up seemed strange. I began to talk, mumble, just to hear the vibration, the strange, half-realized notes of someone I did not know.
From this perspective, a gift that I still have not realized, an examination of self, knowing the self is the greatest of all illusions, and for a moment, the Universe revealed itself to me by showing me I did not exist as I previously thought.
And so, today, it seems odd to be so still when an energy threatens to till me into a thousand separate crops, a dazzling sky of selves instead of the one that believes she exists to write this for you.
Six hours have passed that should be six minutes, or three books have been read as though letters from friends, postcards, mere passing notes. And in each one of them, a bit of my voice.
Strange, longing for a stillness that is no stillness at all, but a shattering, shouting canon into an almost opposite stillness—the place where, lying in bed, one could swear they are no longer in a room, on a street, in a city, on the ground at all, but expanded beyond thought in a space-hanger, a place other-than, where rational thought no longer exists, and neither does the body.
As a child, this is a living-dream, formed while eyes are open and glazed, waiting for recess, waiting for play, imagination, to take full possession of their time, but stuck in the classroom or in some other adult-induced task, they sit, bound by routine. This is exactly where the lifting happens, where, as now grown adults, remember to daydream and become another body altogether.
And, sitting in front of the mirror, brushing my hair, the disassociation experienced lifted me to the place other-than, but above even the childhood day-dream, above even the self, where, part of the Unknown came in and gave me flowers, came in and handed me a broken watch and a cup of otherness, poured over my head.