On Waking

It’s tripping the life fantastic, riding the archetypal wave on the back of your dreams and opening your eyes to what the world has to tell you on markings in dust, a ching! of coins, the wind’s serrations through boughs of oak and maple and birch, the shake of a bowl and the rattle of chicken bones alabaster amid tangles of gut, the glamor of bright rushing water falling into distance. The fool, full of enthusiastic ignorance, embarks on an empty road in a shuffle of Arcanas. The exhalation of warm breath on winter window. The crinkle of flesh on your thumb. Your eyes when you peer into them in the bathroom mirror only to see emptiness, something in itself (how can emptiness be defined by something that does not contain emptiness?). The osmosis of thoughts ascending the murk of a sloshing primordial pool of shadow into the swampy daybreak of cypress consciousness.

The world, in a nutshell, tells us where to go, and once its signals are bright and clear like the red on a crisp stop sign, the world doesn’t tell you what to do no more: it carries you. Is the schizophrenic’s madness an aberration, something to be fixed, restored to the general semblance of normalcy? Perhaps it is we who are the aberrations. We don’t see.


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