I hate it when I turn my brain on.
Such a beautiful sunrise, indescribably vast, envigorating, fleeting, the entire redpinkorangegold of the spectrum skittering softly across the base of the clouds. Seen first in the reflection off windows, colors of the sky embracing cold buildings in their warm glow. Echoed in the rustle of the leaves, the breeze that couldn't quite prevent me from sitting outside watching it along with the pigeons who've become my sunrise compatriots here. (The squirrels don't stop to watch.) Lost all awareness of ticktock time and felt moments flow like light, experiencing the wonder of Einstein's equation while completely ignoring the science of it, felt the only way to comprehend physics, science, life is to step outside of it and experience existence like a pigeon watching the sun rise over Kansas.
Then oh the sky literally turned off, blink and it was day. But not just any day, memories can linger? Until I start thinking, then the magic is gone.
By retreating from my body back into my mind, I'm losing something visceral, something real, that sense of poignancy, of time and place and death and life that sunrises and especially sunsets afford. I'm destroying the sunrise with every word I type, the damn clicketyclack of the keyboard eating away at the original sensation.
Yet I continue to write, to write, to try to share something with anyone and everyone. No one reads this blog, really it's for me, but something in me wants to believe that simply by trying to describe this morning, this life, oh perhaps there's some way to make sense of it.
"Make sense." Odd, the words that flow out. "Sense" isn't made. I had sense. Sense is seesmellhearfeel. Not a blinking cursor and serif font. Somebody please tell me to turn my brain off, I need to go sit with the pigeons
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