There are times I wish I could forget what it felt like to be whole. To be pain-free, light, unburdened by disease, discomfort, and the prison of a failing body.

If I could forget, then maybe I could be content with the ruins of my temple now. Appreciate the mysteries that come with age and imperfection.

But I remember wind in my hair from running through woods and the sweet ache of biking too far, too long, clean sweat washed away in a cool shower.

Now, a walk around the block leaves me tired for a week. Standing through a shower is torture. My brain often feels like it must punch through fog, an exercise in futility.

I can't forget, so I'll forgive my body for not living up to its memory.

I'll find beauty in the moment, smiles and laughter all the more precious for being rare.

They say time heals all wounds. The great Chrono-Healer. How ironic, then, for my pain to be chronic.

...could never illustrate how I feel. I had been woken up to a part of life that was previously unaware to me. And I hated it. I understand not how it happened, only that it did, and things were forever changed. Could you try to understand for a moment? Imagine you wake up tomorrow and something cracks in the recesses of your mind, and after that crack you start noticing things. People you pass on the street seem less real, almost shadows. Buildings you see in the distance seem flat, as if they are just set dressing. And then you start hearing it.

Clack clack clack.

With each of these noises something happens. I get out of bed, I start to get ready for the day, and then I'm on the walk to class. Each time I hear it I want to look around and see where it's coming from. But then I realized, by the time I hear it, it's already been written.

I won't be able to ever find the origin of the noise, because if you're reading this then the story has been complete. I've already done everything I could say or do. All that's left is for you to finish the story. Then I'll be gone. Forever. I asked for your understanding earlier, can I ask for another favor? This last sentence, could you read it slowly, just so I don't have to go so soon?

As I waded through my own meandering accumulation of knowings (and the words to describe them) playing with possibilities on where to start, I found myself hyper aware of the power of the ever existing and actual, is.

“Beingness” is close to “isness” but I recognized there are ample who’d argue with me over the believability of rock beingness, yet those same people wouldn’t/couldn’t argue any given rock’s isness, for it is a rock, is it not?

Even in my asking there’s that present tense actuality of is.

Is it, or is it not? Is the rock, or is the rock not?

“Is, or is not the rock what?” I inquire back to myself, and yet by then it’s already dawned on me that the answer to that “what” question will be another is.

Tis the same way my typing is on a keyboard-- and in that, there is the isness of my typing (I am typing, it is happening,... and this may get maddening) isness of my fingers (each fingers is a finger,) isness of the keyboard, even the isness of the thoughts as I write them; gems of genius from brain to fingertips on the (isnesses that are) buttons we commonly call keys, and as I please, the isness of the time and space I’m doing it in.

I begin again, the ponderous path making of my contemplating. Stating the rock is a rock like the other rocks made of the same minerals, is true, yet incomplete from the seat of that rock, for it is the only rock that is that rock, in its current placement on the planet, in this time of me (the right now of my existing.)

When I stop resisting that isness includes rockness in the makeup (minerals) of being a rock, and also the isness of the time and space that rockness occupies, I dogmatize (settle my opinion that) “isness” is the distinction of specific existence.

Which means to me, the isness of the rock today isn’t the same as it was a million years ago. Even though our technology may be able to tell us that the rock existed a million years in the past, alas, what that technology is really telling us, is that the rock is a million years of isnesses; existences, the oldest of which may be unrecognizable if pictured next to the youngest.

Among us, the isness of the planet (Earth) similarly includes the isness of that rock I reference in my pondering. And like the rock, the isness of Earth today isn’t the same as the isness of when it first became what we call a planet.

So, I ran it in my mind again and came to realize that isness can be called the expression of existence.

The expression of existence is.

Such a whiz of wonder weighted and baited me into the next onset.

Concepts and ideas are existing things, and as things of what they are, they have and are the isness of those things in sum. From the thinking blip of their (concept and idea) existence, to the vocalized, and or printed sharing of them; each version is its own isness of the thing. Isn’t it?

Just like that, I feel and see (in my mind) all the is in all the isnesses from the subatomic particles (neutrons, protons, and electrons; pieces that harmonize together as an atomic-element; the globally culturally accepted scientific reference to the “smallest” physical building blocks of everything in our reality,) individually and in totality (complexly making me,) to the thoughts of all whom are capable of thinking; each thought its own is.

It’s almost just like staring at the grains of sand on a beach, down the coastline where the sand-made shores keep going, beyond knowing… each granule of sand that is land in air and sea, is the isness that it be.

Every particle of smoke churning from the burning end of a dried sage leaf, an isness all its own. I feel it known, the isness of the first birthed particle of smoke nearest the cherry blaze of the embered sage (leaf,) experiences its own evolution of isnesses in the rise of its hot spawning, every new height, position, and temperature a new isness; a new version of the same smoke particle, in a new time and space in its thermodynamic (flowing) race skyward.

In that envisioning, I think, isness is an example of infinity (endlessness,) for as long as there is existence there will be a continuation or evolution of the is that exists into new isnesses, new existences; like the grain of sand washed onto the shore of land to live a new life than it had in the sea.

Too, the bumble bee explorer isness that becomes new knowing versions of itself with every discovery of new territory.

In this way, I find isness is a path to understanding the natural everlastingness and truth of the stream of infinity; though not the only one...

another_proser

* excerpt from my work-in-progress pocket book, "WISE I'S HAVE IT"

Do you ever wonder if someone will read your words?

If when the sky falls and the rain burns,

Someone will sit and speak them out loud,

Fruitlessly hoping,

That they will escape the terror that holds the world in a vice?

Or maybe they will be scrolling through the old archives,

Sipping coffee and wrapped in a fluffy blanket,

Imagining a world so unlike their own?

Or maybe it will be someone like me.

They will find it through chance as they trip,

Sending papers flying.

Only to pick them up one by one,

And realize,

Sometime,

Somewhere,

Someone,

Was a little bit like them.

And will find peace in the idea,

That they are never truly alone.

I had gathered every single spare penny I had, every dollar I’d ever made, every drop of currency I owned. Pouring it all out onto the big, flat, oak table I slammed my hands down and whipped my head upwards to look at the man in front of me. My irises pooled with desperation, practically begging for him to give me what I wanted. He had a peculiar smile on his face, like he’d seen this scene play out one too many times before. The golden glow that emanated from his fingertips spoke whispers of magic.

He flicked his pinky up into the air and smiled as a small, golden flower rose from the tip, only to crumble into glittery dust.

"My dear, you have quite the sum of money," he mused, regarding me with a mere flicker of his gaze, "But I'm afriad my answer is still the same as before." I growled as my fingers curled upon the smooth surface. Banging my fists against the wood like a baby throwing a tantrum, I kept shouting at him.

"You said you provide dreams, and I want a good one! All my life my sleep has been plagued with silence, with darkness. All I want is to feel this! Feel anything! I'm willing to give up everything for you, and this is still not enough?" I madly gestured to the piles and piles of bills and coins stacked upon the table. "Is this not enough?"

The Sandman merely shrugged and snapped his fingers, summoning a chair made out of yellow sand to rest himself on. As he yawned and stretched, I only grew more furious at his nonchalant approach to the situation. Steam poured out of my ears as my face flushed in anger.

"It seems like a lot of money to an ordinary person," he finally responded after smacking his lips loudly, "But these papers and scraps of metal mean nothing to me. Dreams are not for sale." I huffed and puffed at an attempt to calm myself down. I couldn't think rationally if all I knew at the moment was animosity.

"Okay," I murmured, voice hushed, "What can I do to finally have my dream?" The man's lips curved upwards in satisfaction, a proud glint in his pitch-black eye.

"My answer is the same as before: you wait until it comes." I sighed, still not completely getting the memo. Why should I have to wait? I at least had to experience this before everything ended. He must have read my mind, as another reply came immediately after my reaction, but in the form of a question.

"Darling, do you know what the most precious thing in the world is to me?" I grumbled, racking my mind over and over again, not finding one other good answer besides "money."

"I don't know, your lover or something?" I mumbled, shoving my hands in my pockets. The Sandman laughed joyously, clearly amused by my response. With another little chuckle, he sank back into his chair comfortably, producing a small cup. Filling it with a clear liquid, he took a sip, puckered his lips and made the glass disappear with a swipe of his hand.

"I wish, but that's not the case," he said, a slight lilt to his voice, "You're quite the funny one." I grumbled again, not expecting his kindness, but remained silent.

"The answer is time. The most precious thing in the world to me is time." I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow. The statement seemed a little plain to me. Why would he want time? He's immortal, after all. It's insignificant.

"You see," The Sandman sighed, waving his hand carelessly in the air, "Humans have such interesting lives. Yet, the number of years they live can easily be counted by a toddler. It's so short, and a rather dreary thought, but I find strength in knowing that I've been given the responsibility to let them down peacefully in the form of a dream.

"A dream only lasts for a few seconds until it ends. A few seconds of nirvana, I can give to them before they drift off into the afterlife. It's a sense of finally being whole, of being content with the lives they've lived and the experiences they've made. No matter who they were, what they might've done, I can weave their best moments into an amalgamation of happiness. It's what they deserve." The Sandman's tone suddenly turned darker, a grimace beginning to surface on his young features.

"But to those who grow impatient, who don't recognize the true beauty of time, of living and being grateful for every single day they have aren't worthy of experiencing a dream. The world is hard. The world is hard on everyone, it's just the basics. You need to get your head out of the clouds and reflect. We all suffer. We all endure hardships every single day, and whenever it gets unbearable, we feel like it's not worth it to live anymore.

"We throw out the concept of appreciation, of thankfulness and succumb to the tricks that eternal silence gives us. I've seen many people pour their money out on this very table, just as you did, screaming and pleading for me to bestow upon them just one dream so they could float away happily. But every single time I decline.

"Some choose to end their lives miserably, prematurely, without a dream after our meeting. It pains me to see the sight when I saw so much potential in their futures. It feels like there are knives stabbing into my heart, blaming me as the cause of their demise. I still live with it even today.

"But some survive. Some do. They come to me right at the end with tears in their eyes and thank me for proving to them that their time was not useless. Those individuals open my eyes to the world just a bit more.

"And even though I'm stuck giving just a puny amount of seconds to those who are going to pass on, I smile in relief at the feeling of how I'm able to give them a reason to live, even though it's mostly for their self-interest. These dreams that people crave so damn much are what spurs them to run all the way to the end. But what I find ironic is that somewhere along the line, they'll find something worth more than that dream. Something else to keep living for."

The Sandman ended the narrative with a wistful gaze at the room's ceiling, his full black eyes twinkling with the beginnings of tears. He sniffed once and laughed at himself, wiping away the mist with the back of his hand. A few golden sparkles rained down from the contact.

"Now then, I hope I've convinced you enough, darling. Take your money, for I have no need for it. Live happily. Spend your time here wisely. Then, will you truly earn your dream."

My mind hates my heart for its constant complication

my thoughts are too loud they won’t stay in my head

but why

they refuse to let me sleep

maybe I don’t try

I think and overthink while laying in my bed

heartbeat’s racing to the sky

I don’t know

I don’t care

Should I care?

Maybe I do

No

No

Not again

You don’t care

Just stop trying

They don’t deserve it

you don’t either

My heart hates my body for betraying my emotions

my feelings hurt too much they won’t release me

but why

too much tension riding my shoulders

maybe I don’t try

to knock it off would mean more soreness than I have now

heartbeat’s racing to the sky

I just don’t know

It won’t get off

Just get off

Get OFF

Please

Please

please

I’m not strong enough

It’s too heavy

Do I deserve it?

probably

My body hates my mind for pushing me too far

my grip is too tight on my free falling plans

but why

my fingers are turning white and cramping

maybe I don’t try

there has to be a way to reach my goals

heartbeat’s racing to the sky

I just don’t let go

I can’t let go

I don’t want to

I can handle this

Right?

Right.

right

I deserve this

Just this once

How could I not?

I’m trying

I’m trying

I promise

I’m scared

It’s too much

I’m hoping

I’m hoping

I’m hoping

How could I not?

How could I not?

For all my hatred

I still have love

Because I understand

I see my pain

But I see others’

I believe they love me

And I know they do

I doubt they would lie

Lies are hard to maintain

Even mine

I can’t fake it forever

Slowly there are days

I am truly happy

Because I know myself

I can see through my own lies

See my anxiety

My pain

But also my joy

Joy in understanding

And trusting those around me

Accepting I am not perfect

And loving that about myself

For the sake of the story, I forgo thought. If it dazzles me, I let it shine, and I gladly ignore the consequences reality would have on me. Whatever the cost, the escape from doubt is worth it. A moment of irrationality and hope to mend the damage of a lifetime of questions. The head and the heart must not be allowed to war constantly or dominate one another. In a world of undying skepticism, one must have the imagination to conceive of survival before reasoning out the details. Thus, I am made a seeker of fiction, a purveyor of fantasy, and a fair judge of the fantastic. My point, and I do have one, is I might even have had the capacity to fool myself into thinking I could win this competition... and I had to look up what Suspension of Disbelief meant. Case in point.

Inside this poem.

Inside this poem, 

There is an infinity.

Inside this poem,

There is an infinity,

Not just in the middle.

Inside this poem,

There is an infinity,

Not just in the middle,

But every in-between.

Inside this poem,

There is an infinity,

Not just in the middle.

Inside this poem,

There is an infinity.

Inside this poem.