i. i lie down. i breathe. i feel cold. what is cold? constriction, contraction, tightness, spasm. i burrow deeper in the blankets. after what i call a time, contraction ceases, eases. breathing is easier, less constricted. melting. melting follows. still i am. i am melting. am i?
a warm wave, rising in the posterior cervical spine, undulating through the shoulders, the thoracic, the lumbar. like a geologic record, wanting runs the course from the i impulse felt behind my closed eyes, down, down, down, through the circuitry, culminating in a full-body throbbing, aching, absence of something, pressing against 'something else'. the thought, 'i'm lost in it, lost in this press'. then judgment. wasn't Truth what i wanted? Truth is 180 degrees from the cusp of thought-induced orgasm. or is it? is that what this is?
let go and find out. right? who would choose? who let's go? desire is prime ground for locating i.
just release. no releaser, no released. not even a thing to be released from or into. already unmistakably free (or interminably deluded).
just waves, without declarative cause or claim. it's all there seems to be to me. even that is an assumptive stretch...
further questions always arise, or at least they have thus far. tides are predictable, but to whom?