Pausing in demure stillness
I want to put my mind out to pasture, to have it graze on soft smelling grass and not ruminate till the hard earth brings up stones and roots that worry the entrails…. To contain? Where then? In which pasture? Where do I up the fence? How do I build it? With wood and nails and criss crosses that decorate the space and delineate a soft border with a friendly land? Electrical? Where the slightest touch jolts to attention and pushes the humbled wanderer to a safe middle ground, a small circular patch that allows for little stretching? Where is my border? My fence? How will I build it? If seeing beyond is both freedom and terror… Does the prison of the mind return? A cloth fence then. A soft white gauze that alters and shields from sharp images and floats up with the breeze, dancing freely with gay clouds when they come, yet pausing in demure stillness when the sky becomes steel gray, clouds of prison wardens in unforgiving rows…. How do I build my fence? And where?
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