I don't know where I've been, but I've been trying to soak it all in. So far, all I know is I know almost nothing for sure. I know I am solid and sound, to me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow, all are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.* I feel it all going through me; passing nonchalantly through my ears and brushing by my temple, and yet, little stays within. I know that I am not nothing; that this world holds me gripped in my observations, and because I observe and think, I am something, and I am real but there are days that I wake up and feel like I'm dreaming all day. Maybe I was dreaming. Was last week a dream? Maybe I'll stay asleep a little longer.
I know that I don't know when to walk away and when to stay. But, once in awhile you get shown in the light in the strangest of places, if you look at it right,** and it makes everything harder.
Of course I'm into the blues.
* "Song of Myself". Walt Whitman, 1855.
** "Scarlet Begonias" Sublime. 1992, 1996. (Cover of the song by Grateful Dead)
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