Sleeping in the Meadows- An Empty Coconut

Sa swung back and forth from a tree branch. With the motion of his body, so too his thoughts gently rocked back and forth.

All of the tie in the world could do nothing bu amass pressure around his being, elegantly aging and destroying what he thought he knew. All of the time in the world only brought him fulfilled and ended dreams, broken and strong relationships, tossing and turning waves of mind. With all of this, Sa's existence would be complete. Perhaps in a book, summed by the ink and the mystery of imagination, he could live many more lives, replaying ad infinitum.

Swinging back and forth, Sa was at ease. Sometimes the crashing tides of his mind would wash a worry, duty or itch ashore. Sometimes Sa would let go and land on the ground.

But for now, doing what he enjoyed, such a whimsical, silly world, fragile and lonely, colorful and deep, yet short and confusing.

There was beauty wherever he wanted to look. But wherever he wanted to look was only a look, and beauty, involved the energy of his imagination. Without it, a bath was just a bath and a pillow would always be just a pillow. And without it, every story was just noise and every taste just pain. And without it, every face was just skin and every creature just dirt. Without it, every insight was impossible, with no soil for a thought to grow in and no ship for the passengers to ferry on.

Sa was wasting away, so he was left with options. Of how to do so in a way he wanted to. He was left with an empty coconut.

Sa was swinging from a tree not even birds lived in. He certainly couldn't drop from here. It was near a hill and surrounded by islands of grass. It was a new tree. Sa didn't know what life was and he didn't know what do in between his body developing and deteriorating. He didn't know, from he could tell, everything was either perfectly right or it was all unknowable to him. From Sa's point of view, time was just the summation of experiences. And for Sa, an experience was something which governed the lives of others.

But Sa measured his life by the totality of possibilities, the inclusive, visionaries of imagination and the summation of all experiences of all entities. Sa was not convinced of five-senses alone, so he tallied every possibility of extrasensory perception and every imaginative insight onto his side as well. He was not a byproduct of the universe, but he was the universe's universe and the universe was his eyes, his hears, his mouth and his imagination.

And Sa was swinging. After the high tide, he was left with many shells, to collect, some to bury, others to pass by. He was given many fish, many bones and many seaweeds.

After the high tide, Sa could, once again, hear the many sounds coming from the hill. He could, once again, hear the memories enticing him to follow. He could, once again, hear the future asking him to join, asking for his hand, but he had not the words, nor enough eyes to see it all or enough hearts to give and put into it.

Sa could once again see things which before were underwater. Sa could once again see, again, for the first time. It was always this way. A million different ways of describing, so is the same with life, a million different ways of experiencing the same thing.

The ways were not so similar, but the experience was the same, the thoughts came from many sources, in short and long form, in heavy and light form, in visual or sensual form, in vague or explicit forms, but the thoughts were the same. The pleasures had many shapes and varieties, but the pleasure was the same. The people, the cities, the planets, the tears, the laughs, the music, it was not always very similar, but the meaning was the same.

It was not always the same tree branch from which he enjoyed swinging. Sa was not always doing the same. There were many trees, near many hills, and he had many favorites and for many reasons.

Ans Sa had many companion, but they were not all the same.

All the while, Sa was riding the wave, surfing through thoughts. Sa was always tilling the soil, plating seeds, watching them sprout, gathering new fruit and learning new methods. But it was only a past time, and all the while, Sa was swinging back and forth.

In the low tides, Sa was speechless, Sa wasted slower. Sa was organized when it came to his sky, when it came to unveiling the sun and the moon and all of the stars, but he was hopelessly lost when it came to the sea.

Sa has many compasses. He was superstitious about it. But they were always the same. His superstition was ideological, not practical.

Sa travelled and lived in many homes. But every home was not the same. But they were, in fact, all bound by the joys and ups and downs, promises and lies, of the same, that is, home.

There was only one home that Sa ever found refuge in. That was constant, wherever he went. Only one home that was always at the heart of everything, always where his family of one resides, always where he felt comfortable, always where he was free, always where things were never so different or difficult as he expected them to be.

Behind his own eyes, before his own memory, in front of his own misery, beside his own fears, atop his own discomfort and beneath his own expectations. This home was always the same. It painted every pleasure the same pleasure, every pain was the same pain, every loss the same loss, every hope the same hope, every moment the same moment. Every day the same day, every evening the same evening. Every year ended the same ended year. Although it was not the same, after being home, effectually, it was.

Sa thought of the past as a circle, connected to the future. He thought of himself travelling around it every night and every day. He thought of all of the things that a person can do, yet always, never leaving the circle. Yet thinking, as a person does, that fundamentally, inrinsically, these things are certainly levels above or below. Yet to Sa, never leaving the circle. Always, same, same.