My selfishness appears to boundless. It may not truly be, but looking back on the Fall of ’06, I cannot see the edges of it. The basic currency of my existence is what others think of me. Even in the midst of disaster. Apparently, I would still be concerned with how my hair looks as the Titanic sinks beneath me. I am flabbergasted at the depths to which my need for approval sinks. Yet, at some point, this downward journey leads me to the place I should be:
O.k. God, how do you see me?
…no…how do you see me?
You have no eyes, and yet you conceived of color and focus.
Am I a pale blur?
Blind God who perceives all.
Do you touch my face with your fingerless touch while I sleep?
HOW do you see me?
Ah…do you dream? Like a god in a wheelchair, do you run in your dreams?
Do you imagine me?
Are the hammered, Friday night philosophers right? Do I exist in your dreams alone?
Do you dream me?
Am I taller in your dreams?
Am I one of your nightmares?
Are you shouting me out of your mouth?
A new word?
Do you hear me, oh one without ears?
How do you know if I am harsh, or flat?
Am I an angry word? A groan? A giggle?
I need to know when you are pleased.
I don’t feel your pleasure when I do the “right thing”.
I don’t feel you seeing me when I work my hardest.
I feel you seeing me when I am still.
I am your dream when I surrender.
I hear you speak to me when I am quiet.