The light expressed a musing solitude on my early morning run; regrets, pleasures, unfinished business arise. There are stark clear edges of awareness and strange evasions. And I do not quite recognize thoughts as belonging to some thing called “me.” Rather, there is a strange newborn objectivity; ideas like messages in a bottle washed on the shore, traveling from beyond the horizon of an inner sea.
Will I reform my life, answer an ad on a matchbook cover, or plan a sea journey to find mermaids? It all seems possible.