This is the home of Sleeping in the Meadows.

"Surreal and poetic reflections on life and imagination... told in 3rd person through the dreams and adventures of two beings, Sa and Atee." 

Friday, August 22

Number Fifty ©

Sa penned two verses into the fictional memoir of his life. One, a parable on the fading longevity of vision. The other, a silent song.

When he peered under the covers, what he saw is what he had been told. When he took off his glasses, his connection to time branched into new interests. He would periodically connect with differences as the connection touched the peripheries around.

Sa looked for where it was hiding. Something, what was in his drawers. Or on the shelves? What about the neighbor's house? Underneath it all, around the sides of it all. Searching and digging. his paranoia grew. So many things that grew around him, left alone. It could be anywhere. He wanted to know for himself. He flipped over every question, reversed every answer, looked through the eyes on the other side of the painting.

When he saw through, he realized they too were his eyes. Anything he saw through was his eyes. He couldn't see something, and not be behind his own eyes.

He could place his hand on the glass without pushing it through. He could look at a window and he could see through it. Just as he could watch or a dream, or live it. He could feel his heart, he could wear it on his sleeve, or he could pump his blood through other veins. It was his idea of love, one shared blood flow, when all of our hearts pump life through one another.

When a softness was comforting pleasure for this hand and that hand. When behind all the eyes and voices was one flowing bloodstream. When this beginning in one being was a beginning within us. When the falls between planes were also the planes between falls. When what we know was all we had to experience and the return to soil was our one and only.

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