Am I just making this up or is it really happening?

As I age it seems my bones get bigger,

Do they now hold more blood?

They say the universe is ever expanding stretching infinitely in all directions,

Is there now room for more stardust?

And the pace of electrons inside the superconductor

Do they go faster and faster?

Theses days when I pick up the local paper

And read about flash floods and car wrecks and weddings

I see myself into each situation, each upswell in time calls itself to me.

 

The lights of the city sprawl spill out into the desert in ever expanding orbits.

And it takes me longer and longer to get out beyond the edge…

Of anything and, on the flip-side, all the years of scanning my inner landscape, alternately expanding and contracting and retaining my breath,

all this searching for epi-center has been for naught. Where I once had to fly to India to feel more myself, today I lie on the living room floor, with the hum of the refridgerator behind me, and feel the tiniest tug of connective tissue, listen to the echo of a pulse in the back of my ears  and in doing so, feel that is as much, more than enough,

as I could ever have dreamed. 

 

 

Then I catch myself creating text with me as the central character

And I ask myself, “Am I just making this up or is it really happening?”

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