I don’t feel like naming this one.

Call it: in bed with cats, windows open, desert spring, fat flashlight and a beautiful book.

I could force myself to write and God knows I’d mean every word; but all I want to do is feel.  My inner body, says Tolle, author of said beautiful book.

So I Breathe.  Feel.  Heal.  Remember.  Me.  The me that is aware of me.

Through clear eyes.  Long breaths.  Pay attention to the soft tingling in limbs.  That hum of energy trapped in flesh.  It’s a gift I think.  God cups our essence in our own flesh and if I’m quiet, sober, and soft enough I get to feel it.

Grateful I didn’t throw wine tonight on that deep coal bed of mind made angst that is ego.

Grateful I won’t wake up at 3 am inexplicably terrified and shaking.  Grateful I won’t feel sick and depressed tomorrow.  Grateful for every day I don’t kill myself by inches.  Body and Soul.

Speaking of whom, She, my soul wants me to shut the hell up now and get back to the business of letting her stretch her legs under the moon.

Ha.  Reminds me, how does it go?  “The finger pointing to the moon is not the moon.”

Turn off thought.  I feel, therefore I am.

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