Meditation

They say: no thoughts, just images. Repetition, breathing, counting. Close your eyes and inside, open them. What language are you counting in? Past and future all bundled up... isn't that the present? No.

Try to keep your balance: you have none.

North, South, East, West. With each view, what did you see?

It's all about lucid dreams again. When you dream, your heartbeat and breathing are constant, automatic. Your mind is clear. Your rationality is temporarly drugged, tickled and tricked. When you meditate, try this, but in-to-out (or out-to-in?), not in-to-in. Recall your life's not lost. Keep it, polish it, observe. Flashes of insignificant moments and theirs smells, their temperature and mood. Millions of fireflies with the scattering sweet sound of the bells.
A body sinking in the vast ocean with the twang of the cells. Cells of the forest creatures that wish only for silence. Always under, never over.

That recurring ocean... doing somersaults in the waves. Foam frothing forth.

I arrive at my image of what Iwish to heal: A sunkissed rosy girl in a dark blue full-piece bathing suit, with goosebumps in the windy stormy cloudy dusk, so blue, so grey, no stars. The ocean wild, trying to be like the wind, waking in a monstruos wave that shakes the core of vertical and horizontal... the girl before the wave, staring, shaking, hugging her knees, the wave taller than ten of she.

Push that image out, this is all about control. Shift from water to earth: a tree forms. Not any tree, the tree in my grandfather's garden, with the wooden swing. The same girl now in that tattered swing, in her parched overcoat, sw-inging , the view of vines flat in front of her face, the orange tree behind her, and far, centuries away, the house. Swinging, earth, tree. I remember that picture over the piano, where the chubby child I was holds a pink flower at the photographer, and the backdrop is those vines.

Before I reached this image you asked me to narrate my thoughts: I had said they were unstoppable. "It's just so hard to verbalize as I think, I can't help but think I'm cheating. And because thought (and that's why I can't cease to think) is in layers, and there are many voices, some more abstract some more concrete, and one comments and the other remarks, and I know I'm thinking because I'm thinking about thinking, and then thinking about how I know I'm thinking because I think about knowing I'm thinking, and then again, until this is just one voice again, and suddenly the book Rayuela comes to mind, for some reason... "

When I am only body my mind is finally only mind.

And my heart... lost somewhere. Free to no longer be protagonist. Only an empty shell that fills with water.

I know that if I constantly play these games, change will happen. Game will be my life, playing with the rules of tranquility. Impersonating a wink, the distortion of parallel lines.