September (cont.)

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.

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