(Art by Alex Grey)
Oh my Dear, Dear Mind,
” ‘Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone:
And yet no further than a wanton’s bird;
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.”
(Romeo and Juliet ~ Shakespeare)
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
And the fact that I am using you to write to you is a little disconcerting. But such are the tools at my disposal.
And good morning!
How well you have served me, dear Mind. How beautifully you have furnished all the palaces I have built in the Heavens. How deviously you have populated my Hells. You have pinned down the awnings of the circumference of my firmament, and formed struts so imperishable that they are works of wonder and art.
You have sped fearlessly to explore the outer reaches of Infinity and have returned in a flash to inspect a petty itch on my toe. You stretch and twist and contract so balletically, and lure me down a thousand rabbit holes. You know darkness and light and every shade in between.
You have committed fully, like the consummate method actor, to an awesome variety of emotions and attachments, wailing and weeping and jubilation and, occasionally, you have even been wise. If there was an Oscar for a Mind, I would award it to you. Dear, dear Mind, you deserve it!
To sink into your fantasies is as easy and seductive as another slice of Chocolate Cake, and it feels strangely comforting to crouch down like a dog with a worry-bone and to gnaw away to recreate that pleasure-pain sensation. Your well worn paths are so easy to follow, so delightful; your grooves seem to fit a sensation of ”me” that once upon a time I must have fashioned from space.
Sorrow you know, and joy. And such plays as you conjure to produce both sorrow and joy.
But don’t you ever grow weary?
Don’t you ever tire of the whole production? The interruptions of bliss. Checking to see if your fly is undone before you can wholly surrender. Watching for traffic where none should exist. Pulling the rug. Warning that colds might be caught.
Would you not enjoy a long holiday on some deserted tropical island with just the sounds of the ocean and the wind to beguile you? A place where you could untangle your webs and disarm your snares. Where you could crawl out from beneath your burden, like Atlas shrugging the globe.
(Be careful, you say.
You might just lose your mind.
And then where would you be?
Holed up with the crazies..)
(Free, I whisper.
Oh, You lovely Scheherazade.)
Think about it, Mind.
Don’t think about it, Mind.
Just feel the sand between your toes.
OM TAT SAT