I’ve been procrastinating away from the page for a few days now. Tiptoeing around ideas about whether it’s better to write nothing, something descriptive of the days events, some thoughts about one thing or another, or another matter altogether, the mind and the body darted to other tasks and infirmities of the moment.
Even now, at the touch of a keystroke I flit from the page, imagining some pressing email waiting elsewhere for my attention.
All of this darting about reflective of an inner state not yet fully adapted to the idea that the existential experience is, after all, a freefall in and out of constructed meaning through a boundless field just tangible enough to be love coming into form in the myriad of eternity.
What to say about this, but something about synesthesia, thoughts, the wind on my skin, a persistent sound underlying the music, all, as they say, one taste.
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