Longer than a week later

This one could be about growing beards, but then again maybe it is not about growing beards, maybe it could be about anything, or nothing much at all...

Image by Sathish kumar Periyasamy from Pixabay

A week later when the sun came out, I was scratching an itch and trying to move myself away from the bee’s nest of my mind.

An old memory surfaced to give me credence, and said: many have died for you to believe what you want to.

I was but a lunatic, what did I know about any of this.

Well, if that is what you think then let me tell you that time has no meaning; for when the rust of the past crawls past you calling your name, you can let it go, or be dragged along until you cry.

But crying is not so bad, said the onion.

Image by Owantana from Pixabay

As the moon raced across the sky, my beard grew even longer and I ached to go home, until the bust of a bronze brunette flew into my face and I just had to readjust the sails to go where the winds were blowing; so I said: where blows this?

Over yonder, was the reply.

So I went there with an, ‘ah dear’ and a cup of weak tea, and called out to the guide: are you waiting for me to die?

There was no answer until midnight came and went again, and then I heard a snigger coming from the bushes where the guide was hiding.

Open up, said the guide.

I rattled my chains for the guide to see I was in need of rescuing.

Ten past two appeared as a half moon shining through my window as some strange female wrapped up in a pumpkin.

Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay

I thought about the Walldorf hotel, and room service, and did they have a swimming pool, but I had no idea what was going on there, so turned on the radio instead, until the sun came up and the border guards asked for my papers
I’ve got an Irish passport, I said, and held it out for them to inspect with their dirty fingers.

As I watched a cloud passing over, a tinny radio played Mr Tambourine man until I became longer than a week later and found I didn’t care anymore for all the concerns that made no sense.

But I was not a fool, and so kept my mouth shut until I’d gone through the gates of hell to cough myself out the other side and then run away like bloody mad.

Momentum carried me onwards of course, until I could not see for the spray that whipped my face blue, and so had to rest-up awhile, like a lonely leaf flowing down river that finds itself silently nudging the bank to be saved.

And now repeat after me a thousand times: there is no time, until there is no more sense left of all you believe to be true, whereupon you can begin the next task.

I am not a mushroom, but sometimes I’m a rock, and sometimes I’m a stone, but mostly I am the thirst of my thoughts, until I can put them aside and become my true nature. Or even maybe find that true girlfriend of I've always looked for.

Image by skeeze from Pixabay

Time of course doesn’t care a hoot about anything I think, for there is no time, only the dream that isn’t real, and I could hear myself thinking this and looking at the clock to see if it was moving.

The hungry ghosts laughed from the outside of all I knew and so didn’t bother me that much until I had to make up my mind to make a run for it.

Are we poets now, said the guide through a sad song that came on heavy with too many voices.

I remembered that I had a trumpet once, but I must have sold it somewhere, maybe as I walked through the graveyard, or maybe that time I was down in spirit and couldn’t go on anymore.

Whatever; the desert is a long walk through many fates, and not all of them are kind; and some whisper your name as you pass around them to get to anywhere that’s quiet where you can die in silence, and alone.

Keeping watch into the future later, an unlikely suspect of the futuristic kind began throwing rocks into the mirror of his mind, and received electric shocks to knock him out of his mind by the kind doctors looking on.

They called this extreme care; that came with thorns. This was another thing the bible doesn’t mention in the shape of the dream.

When I fell out of bed about this, I landed not very far away on the floor. This was excellent, I thought, for I’d had a fear for some while that if I fell, I’d not stop falling.

Image by Mikke Strandberg from Pixabay

So in my next meditation, I had a big smile on my face and felt relaxed, knowing that if I did fall, I’d not go far.

But, Just lately I’ve been falling out of bed a lot just to make sure I’m not fooling myself about it, really, like I’m still asleep and dreaming about it, like the shape of the dream where I’m falling out of bed again…

After I’d landed on the floor ten thousand times I came to the conclusion that any falling at all was not good for me, and so I smiled into the shape of the dream all I wanted to be, with my beard gleaming.

Miles higher than this later where the clouds were pure: I looked down on it all and smiled, and made my beard glow even more and drew a heart in all that way coming at me... love and peace man....

Image by Mabel Amber, still incognito... from Pixabay

Images from Pixabay