Water...

The steps of all men are ordered in and by geological time.  Anything else . . . what do you think?

Words are pouring through me.  I think the closest to lucid dreaming was a chance experience of mine last night.  Words and more words.  No I'm not writing those words now...or am I?  They were subconscious thoughts welling up like a spring in my mind. Torrents of thoughts framed in words.  Of course I did read Yuknavitch, Lidia. The chronology of water: A memoir . Hawthorne Books, 2013. Yesterday in almost one sitting. Powerful, powerful book.  I swirled my toes in the currents of a babbling brook in the hills above Fort Collins just off the "Summer Indian Trail" two days ago.  It was my little piece of heaven on earth experience. Bound by time, to time, is something that I long to be free from.  The water cared not where it came or where it went.  It was water.  It might have been spring fed.  I don't know where else the water would be coming from...runoff water? Gap-in the hills, sent a blaze through my being.  Tiered of the on-trail stuff,  I dared to step

I'm me.  I see this as a defended statement currently.  The vast possibilities of living are overwhelming and too much.  I respect that these are defended states of thinking that will need time to integrate into the reality that I may choose from many options, and be happy with my selection at the end of the day or not be happy.  It's okay.  I cannot know now what will be the end of my life's story.  I'm writing these lines, now. In the future I might or may not read again.  I may see things the same or differently.  I tapped on groudlessness.   I found myself hugging myself.  It was a comforting embrace that had for its essence worldlessness.  It was an acknowledgement of the tiredness of the exhaustion of wanting to know and being afraid to know.  I have ordered several more books as a result of Yalom's comment in "Staring at the Sun" regarding the significance of this work on him: Becker, Ernest. The denial of death. Simon and Schuster, 2007. List

There is only a small amount of enthusiasm this morning. I don't know all the reasons. Pushing. There is not a single day this last week in which I was not pushing against some formidable obstacle. I'm rolling the stone up the hill. I don't think that this stone has to do anything with the real responsibilities of this day. I've been listening to the Tapping Summit in series. I'm on Disk15 on rekindling relationships. I look at my week and think to myself: What is important. I think writing is important. This anxiety is telling me something. I will befriend it. I think that in the long scope of things, it will be the very thing that helps me find my sweet spot of "my place in this world". Here is a great question: What is my place in this world? It is an existential question. There is no answer except that I AM. There is no other purpose, than to be me. I can be me. It's a safe to be me. I am still me regardless. I don't think this is