A Kind of Subatomic Musical Chairs

The days and nights flutter by like crisp $100 bills blown by wind through the concrete and steel canyons. I keep wondering where the time goes but have now realized it seeps into the pores of my skin through my blood, bones, and organs, exiting the other side. I am just a sieve, a through way for that the giant wall of water known as Time.

Stuff happens but Time is still in my own mind. This is how we can get around Time, by keeping it in our own heads. We do it in our dreams every night, don't we? My dreams are all nanoseconds and epic generations of stories. Hundreds of years go by in a single dream, my thoughts running to catch up. I grasp at those loose dark veils which trail behind, all pageantry and bridal echoes. I never see the face hidden behind the layers of black lace and sheers. When I have the opportunity, I draw away from there. I don't want to see.

The traffic of my projects zoom by me on this congested road. Everyone is going more than 80 miles an hour but they're following too close. I think a crash must be imminent but there's no rain, not even a bump in the road, to interrupt progress. Again, I'm barely able to keep up. It seems my interests have taken on a life of their own, they seem to be stretching out new muscles, but they know they have to wait for me because I'm their conduit, their channel. Nothing happens until I literally make it so. Until then it's all a massive, incoherent stew.

Unreality and reality are separated by the thin membrane which separates my internal and external selves but I know that wall is just an illusion, something the brain makes up to keep track of everything. This should scare me but it doesn't for I know everything has its place even though it would be just as happy switching positions, playing a kind of subatomic musical chairs. When you have order vs. chaos, many times the order wins. The only reason this happens is because we make it so. Order, like that thin membrane, is just a mental construct, an evolutionary survival mechanism.

I wish I could frisk like any other self-serving person but I'm too painfully aware of my limitations. I've too much narrowness in my vision of things. Too little expansion of mind. No matter how much I fill my head with neat things, it's never enough. I'm surrounded by others who dance in ritual, holding hands, inviting me into that idyllic pastel landscape. They say letting go is the best thing all around. I still doubt them.