8 September 2012
I clear my mind.
I can do that now; I push everything out the way, over the ledge, and hear it splash into the murky waters of things I no longer need to know, and let myself lie on the flat, white disk of my empty mind.
I listen to my breathing, eyes shut, and feel the rise and fall of my ribs with the tips of my fragile fingers. The ivory bands that I can trace with my fingers clutch my lungs and heart like a mothers lily-white hands. My breathing sometimes sounds like the rush of the waves against a band of white, glittering sand, and almost for a second, I am there. There is no more glorious place in the world than the place the mind sculpts from the thick clay of desperation. And so here, I settle into the curves of my imagination, and think of nothing more than the breath lapping against my lips.
But then, the things I push over the edge begin to matter, and I must pull them back out of the water, dry them off in the sun, and begin to unpick the tangled balls of string that are my life.
Meditation • Opuss № I