witness the walls of your Self peel away

pulsing

  • at first, filling with awe.

  • it is too much and

  • are not brittle if sound is not there. It is a soft touch, like little plates shifting.

  • ed by vocal cords that never really liked me in the first place, I point to the wastebasket with trusty fingers. Her eyes widen slightly. “You been going through my thrash, youngster?” She taps the white box and a deeper silence swallows the room. The hum and hiss of the turned-off radio still flits past, but now I feel my mind loosen up.

  • looms, bulges and pops. Silence spreads and the voices recede. My head shakes. Throat aches. I just want to go home.

  • course

  • chokes and drowns me. I’m thinking about how I’ve never wanted to belong when Dzogchen rolls up with a question.

  • a gutter. That’s not what it is.

  • sense of rigidity, spaced by sparks of creativity. Meticulous clutter, exquisitely arranged to provoke a feeling of looseness and some vague sense of freedom. This will do, she must be thinking. It has to.

  • “I’ve always had this idea that it’s far more common than people let on.”

    “What?”

    “Hearing voices.”

    A car flits past.

    “I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

    “Okay.”

    “It’s just, I heard hissing, and-”

    “Gas leak.”

    “Sticks with ya.”

  • something they can find fault with.

    Something to rage at, something to hate.