Stream of Mind: Seeking Truth

Often, there are visuals and sound that accompany
the stream of mind of thought. Textures hold truth.
Squeezed lemons. Cinnamon rolls hot to the touch.
A beautiful white potted echeveria sits at the corner.

The he said, she said, of it all, takes over.
The way in which opinions rule. The gossip.
There's a malice though. A jealousy. A premonition.
It would be like following an enemy's advice.

There is not only one right.
Each pearl has scratches and bumps. None are alike.
The curse of being stagnant in the way. But,
does the way make any sense? What way, is it?

It's all distorted. The criticisms are stronger than
The truth. But still, we worship the truth. The untruth actually.
Well, that's ironic.

There is no way to reach reality,
because even when thinking about that moment
the moment has passed itself. A thoughtful gaze out
the window sill. Glazed donuts. We can attempt
to create our own reality. The only way to maintain
sanity, with a succumbing smirk. It's quite simple
to bury in the quicksand. Stevens might agree.

Walking slowly up a pair of stairs but as she moves
the stairs slip beneath her, she tries to reach her arm up.
To the air. To reach the sunlight. Saturated chills.
It's in this moment. Something inside is expanding.
Blurs of dark maroons and reds. With specks of glowing
yellow and purple. When you rub your eyes. Those colors.
Slowly, then all at once, you forget where you once were.
Even words, the instruments, don't know how to play.
Smooth acoustics, the warmth of two skins, a slow spinning.
beams and heightens. Holding breaths. Where are the stairs?
What stairs? Then the body floats and lifts, weightless. Light.
Like a feather, with a tear slowly gathering at it's edge. There
are no words for true serenity. The calm of two souls.
Not even suns, or smooth, or sound can cut it.
This a visual of joy.

It's all ephemeral. Crystal. Many faces.
The walks can not be branded or sealed, simply with a stamp.
It's more like a rubble, not quite clean. With books
and letters, objects of sentiment. Ripped pictures.
All with a layer of dust. They don't make sense together.
And on top of that, add the misjudgments, the mistakes.
Mish mosh pish posh. How to begin the ration when, so much
of it is marred by perception. Human connections.

You ask her how she's doing.
She answers "It's complicated" But is it really?
How many of those reasons are mere illusions of mind?
Negative creations of reality. Harsh on others. Harsh on self.
The quicksand is close by still. Forget it. Really.
The tension is in the concept. The journey of self.
Focus on oneself, many don't. The pendulum of sway.
Keep it balanced with instability. Stability. Truth. Untruth.
These are all just words. Uncertainties. Truths and untruths.
All faceted together in a web of colors. Neither one the other.

Tilting.

You know how they say there’s a man on the moon
well there's a man on my tonsil. He never leaves though, only
A lump in the throat. Like the books lined neatly on the shelf,
it tilts, the lump, with the unsteady flow of a clocking brain moving loosely.
Mirrored and engaged with those blue and red lines like we see
In that of a 3D movie. The mind has no rush to clear the haze. Instead,
wanders the foggy winds of thought and tries to open boxes
without tops to hold. That sounds like a slippery feat. It doesn’t sit straight.
Like the books that can’t seem to hold it together but they should.
Shouldn’t they? Bound precisely, by the factories wishing. Unless,
There’s something amiss. A miscommunication of distorts. Leaving
The things around and within us breathful. I think you mean breathless.
Enough. There’s no need for that one hundred percent. A tear sheds
from the corner of her eye, loose but with a firm landing. A filmy wash of
Tired trials ache to make sense of the twisted knots. Still no give.
No tell for energy’s return and arrival. For now, the swoon has taken a liking
To her. It's staying with her with the tilts of blue and red lines .



The eye can’t focus for very long.