Though it might not be readily apparent, behind my daily facade therein lies a surity, an impetus of conviction. Another world of contextual embracement that belies everything that you would see with your eyes. Disbelieve the eyes, they tell you nothing but what you can allow, and what you can allow is wholly reliant on your integrity. I will be I in any universe, any plane, any backdrop. Without fanfare, or promotion, or enforced collective fantasy.
There is a center that is created from the encircling of rhythm. The beat will always drop right there, whether you play up to it or not. The center is there, and you either believe in it—and play to it with your heart, knowing that it is there infinitely and eternally—or you create manufactured myth that still revolves mindlessly about the sun.
Delight comes from the fieldtrips away from what is known. But you always come home. Even when home might only be implied, might be buffered beneath a barrage of staccato tangents and explosions and quantum leaps in imagination. It is there, held within lobes of integral awareness, the razor point forceps of focused awareness, of this possessed creator, that channel of balanced movement, of integrity, of a centered knowing, of this, in tune with that. You can’t drop the beat when you have the unshakable conviction of the sentenced. You can’t escape this necessary self fulfilled embodiment. This is me. This is my flow.
I exist to delight in the act of creation. To be overwhelmed by the possibilities of what is already perfect, the endlessly immediately joyful permutations of what is eternal. What need I have for this, what need have I for that? Everything is a palette to paint the world according to what it already is. As my palate expands for infinite variety and multiplicity, I come to know quite definitively what it is I am. And it has very little to do with what is perceived. It has much more to do with what lies beneath the boundaries of you and me, behind what divides the self from other. There is everything, all of us, dancing already from branch to branch, synapses and atoms swirling, particulates condensing into the singular drop of a moment. Into this dense jungle of our interconnections, I find myself falling into myself. I am all of this, siphoned thinly into this body speaking this language that is my thought translated through to my fingers to be cast electrically into the night. This is my essence correlated through to my desire. A depth so immediate, so fragmented, you don’t see the passage of light. But there it is there, shining into your face. Leaving the trace of my moonshine.