-Sometimes there’s this feeling, this yearning to find this secret path that takes you to the place of dreams, the one that was stuck in your dreams in your infancy, when you believed the world itself was a magical kingdom. And I’ll lie there and escape my predicament, escape myself, if only for a momentary lapse of consciousness. And I can go no further. There’s that threshold I dare not cross, to be enamored too completely with your dreams is to be enamored with fantasy and to eschew reality, and to eschew reality is at long last in twenty some odd years to be dreary of it and undone by it.
So I sit up and smoke, let the clouds linger in my room and once released return to me and inhabit the space of my lungs again, and I become both the smoker and the affected, a culmination so distant but close enough to being the knower and the known, from the buddhist transitional state of bare attention.
As the night passes, I let my attention drift from me to the not me, floating lightly above the ten thousand things, and in some pale moment I feel and then I don’t and perhaps I dream.
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