Let’s see how this goes and whether or not I like it enough to stick with the idea that was implanted into my beautiful brain when I was at University studying linguistics and writing and found out about things like the density of prose and writing styles where writers create circuitous and hypnotic effects on their readers’ brains by unpacking and unveiling and uncovering one idea after another, showing how they are interconnected and never quite separate even though it appears so on the surface of the seen being seen by the seer who is much deeper than the subjects passing by, noticing such depth only when they let go of holding on to the ways they think things are supposed to be and find that all those things that once caught their full attention are time-bound and just as temporary as a cloud crossing the sky and a wave rising, cresting, and falling back into the ocean of awareness where the seer begins to see that they reside and, once ceasing to attach solely to the experience of wave-ing, knows that they simply are, for brief moments at first, and then more and more as they spend more time at home and less time trying to find home in places and times and situations and things that ultimately point them back to where they are now, soaking in the deep ocean of awareness only to rise as a wave for a time experiencing all that there is to see and feel and hear and taste and touch, until they return again and again, rising as a wave and living in the world and in the body from more awareness and less doing, less grabbing, less pulling, less pushing, less resisting the natural life cycle of wave-ness that is just what it is, even for these hands and fingers flying away at the keys on this computer to tell a story that is unfolding in a brain that is whole and full and beloved and loved and lovely and healing and healed and ready to accept more and more this wave of life that caught it up and broke left when it was expected to break right, but broke Right when it broke left and somehow never really broke at all except to be emptied and filled up with the ocean of life and love that is always waiting to fill the vessel, Love that enjoys mixed metaphors, laughs extravagantly, despairs openly, lets the fires of existence burn hotly, and just lets go and sees how this goes and goes and goes until the timer goes off and this wave is gone, but not gone, just resting in the ocean, again, like always. Time
