I do not question this fragile faith I have that the people and places I remember, the place I was this morning, the woman I awoke beside, are real. They are not vain imaginations I have conjured here in this coffee shop world. There is more out there than I can see with my eyes here, more than this computer in front of me that I feel with my fingertips, more than this wooden chair, more than this tile floor, more than this aroma of brewing coffee wafting in my nose. I rely on my vast store of memories as another sense to tell me what the world is like, full of certain people with certain faces and certain voices and I am as certain of the reality of them as I am of this sunlight shining too brightly into my eyes, too warmly onto my jeans, here in this place. If it is all a lie, this beautiful life I remember every day, then I am blissfully deceived and I will never admit the truth. I call myself a skeptic, but I am awash in the faith that I will see your face again. Meanwhile, here I sit, believing everything I see, everything I hear, everything I taste, smell and feel. My sensual life is my religion and I believe in it with all my heart and mind and strength, this rough stubble on my cheeks, this new wiry grey in my hair, this slick sweat on my neck.
We dwell in possibility
Or so the poet said
Though she spoke only for herself
The voice inside her head
Some dwell in tangibility
Their hands are occupied
My hand are empty, idle, still
I live my life inside
I dwell in need of levity
A lightness in the mind
Though burdened here with gravity
I will not be confined
Come dwell in possibility
Reality forsaken
Let's revel in denial, dear
Embrace the sweet mistaken
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
