writing about nature to wake myself from a daze of electricity

The sun hot, the moon cool as it sets the surface, to remould the next rising of the gold
And the sky ginormous, endless as the shapes of the sea in its ever-changing face of being.
I let the stars pierce me and wring out my eyes so that I can see all of these pieces of life.
Life in its ever moving purity, life stuck by its loving enemy, stagnated waiting for the touch of humanity.

Rocks weave those forms that are free with their unmoving presence, in to motion, all that is around them, fast and slow mark the paces of those tides above and below us, the movement of things a world in its own.

And the leaves that scatter and shred, like so many streams of sand and tears of the earth, broken from singularity in to shards that are so light and unknown of their source that they dance in the air suspended, and mend the ground where they fall, in to meshes of crumbling earth, to be reborn.

And these seats of mine, in these places hardwired in to time by carved wood, holding us steady in this realm of uncompostible life, where everything lives only once, and is hard, and unmoving and keeps its shape, so and so that I think I am slow, staring out of a window that stays square again and again, whilst all outside of it dances frantically with the blow of those elements in constant flight and flow which the glass tells me I have not, as here I am, seated and still. Until I wish to crack the glass, and bash all of these hard things around me which have been made, to be free from this time zone in which I am caught like a polished cycle in a marble bag.

Reverberations through dimensions that are not yet known to us, jolt me as I drift off to sleep at night, shaking the steady held front pillars of my brain, the great quaking, and I smile, and maybe I cry, because all of that which is untold is all that I feel we are, free of this choking marble, and the smooth surface of it clasps our lips and dancing tauntingly in our polished eyes and someone might ask me a question in waking life, a sweet question of marble, and I will reply, the pale answer of marble, and so far behind each of our eyes we can see these sheet structures of marble before us, where we speak, and yet not either of us knows yet how to clasp this marble material of us and direct it in a way which can be accepted and reach over to create a new way to beseech. That is the passive sickness, a place polished and reflective, conscious and asleep, the cold ice skate of a lucid dream, awareness of ourselves so extreme, so torturous in position, this is our dance with the opposition, in these imaginings of fabrics that sway and blind back and forth before us, we cannot tear them down, but dance in between them like birds, flapping the poles of our eyes, because these senses are both yours and mine, our collective mind from which we perceive this world created by our wildest dreams, in which we are split in to so many different beings, and faced with the possibility of sleeping, upon all of this mad unbelievable show.