This mind has a life of its own.

It invents infinite lists…
of tasks to do,
of whos to be,
of conversations to replay,
of facts to analyze,
of images to dissect,
of memories to revisit,
of futures to find,
of art to create,
of words to compose,
of dances to choreograph,
of stories to live…

of needs
of wants
of likes
of loves

and so it goes…
on and on.

I’m immersed in the mind as I sit with it all,
the time ticking by and I’m…
Impatient.
Anxious.
Hungry.
Thirsty.
Itchy.
Too hot.
No, too cold.
I’m entirely too dog-covered!

I need a cookie.

and I’m…
smelling flowers that are wilting.

and I’m…
waiting for this 15 minute self-imposed morning meditation to be over,
so I can go on with my *very important* day.

I have forgotten what the point is.

I try yoga-teachering myself, in an attempt to remember,
but the undone stuff calls, waits, looms, threatens, even.

Then, a subtle shifting.

A clicking.

Faint on the periphery
a thousand cicada tymbals vibrate
their persistent little stream of sex and magic.

The chorus swells
into a tidal wave of sound
breaking through
scattering the thought-sandcastles

the mind awash disintegrates like salt

and in the undertow…
the present.

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