I have been reading and thinking a lot lately about the unconscious, in metaphorical terms, described as being like the other side of the mirror; the person within us that acts, but unthinkingly, or with a mode of thought so different to our 'own' that we recognise, it feels barely like us, at all.
As I sit on my bed and glance out of my window at the world, painted white by the, somewhat still there, snow- a part of me got to thinking, while the body remained fixed.
Here's a poem I wrote a short while ago, no further context needed!
There is a world that flows around me,
made of people and place, wide as the sea-
they race and pace to a rhythm they've made
but I struggle, still, to connect or believe.
There is a beauty, herein, that much s true:
the symbol, the circle, as blue joins to blue
and the line of the horizon is falsely made;
as with all human veils, I try to see through.
And I wonder, sometimes, what life truly means
I contemplate all things, but still never see,
is there ever a point, or is all accident?
A life wide awake is a life spent in dreams.
