I feel pregnant, about to burst. My ideas like foetus, each unnamed, but their hearts are beating and if you squint you can see their fingerprints like psychedelic swirls of color and meaning.
We've all been this way before; we're treading well-worn paths with new feet. Old souls, new soles. The roller coaster becomes familiar, every jerk and turn and anticipatory ascension and stomach-dropping plummet. We need to be unafraid to grasp onto the clues of the myth of deja vu. That sinister feeling, mis-leading you comfortably backwards through the hazy mists of memory and past. It's just a sign to move forward, ever forward, excelsior. Hints from the ghosts that lurk inside of our crystalline genes and the mysterious folds and valleys of our gray brain. Telegraphs from the Brahman to the Atman.
Recognizing familiarity and unpronounceable longing is the first step towards recognizing that we have a choice in this life; to continue walking the treadmill of comfort and worldly passion, or to take these clues and use them as a key to map out our transcendence. I'm not ready for this, I'm not ready to deny the seemingly natural course of my existence, but I'm learning to recognize the ghost hints for what they truly are. I could be wrong, but this is of no consequence. I could be right, and therein lies the prehistoric wilderness of my dreams, ad infinitum.
inspired by psychotropic botanical-induced murmurs concerning deja vu and Bill Hicks and Lord Vishnu as an infinite ocean, Stanksgiving '09, Murfreesboro
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