2002-12-16 - 12:00 PM

I just awoke from a dream in which I owned my own planet. Then, I am sitting on my planet, comfortably fishing out of a very large bucket. At that pivital moment, I awake to the phone wailing in my ear, and it is a good friend inviting me to explore an antique shop downtown. Things are beautiful, exactly how I want them to be, each snow-clump falling from the sky with such precision that they must be getting some sort of subliminal okay from me before slowly landing on a piece of wet sidewalk or a row of bikes in just the right location. Things have just been working out that way for me -- not on a large scale, but on a micro scale, a scale so small and unassuming that perhaps only I would notice it. For instance, I was walking toward home the other day, after a morning of collosal and exquisite nothingness and neutrality, a gray air and just existing, as if that were enough, as if that were always just enough. From a tree right ahead of me a leaf fell, brown and curled from the dryness, and floated down to land exactly at my feet. I cradled it as an infant and actually felt myself begin to cry from the beauty of everything. I could feel it filling me, dripping off of me as radiation, and affecting other people around me to where they all just smiled right at me. It was a quiet kind of beauty, and I just lay back and sort of observed every aspect of living. And I was crying. I was crying not because I had realized the beauty of things, but because I had realized that they had always been there, and maybe those weepy little birds enclosed in institutions and sometimes all around us knew this and felt it all the time. Because of this, the way I think, the way I am quiet and just know rather than reason out or calculate, I feel seperate, a piece of something that doesn't exist anymore, or doesn't exist yet, or maybe will never exist, except in the times when a single leaf falls from a tree, landing at someone's feet, and that person actually notices.