Something is off, and it’s not the four letter word inscribed on a carrot, that soft flesh someone calls home. I shouldn’t be here. Not today. I sense I lost touch to parsnip, baby bear and great white.  Lost is a four letter word too, and it stands straight, well, leaning somewhat against the forefront, where the world draws slow circles and I abandoned its grace. I must return. Not by dancing comically or swaying cautiously, but by my questioning. Ruthless questioning, because I have learned to hide the truth from my own eyes, my own heart. Too scared to look and to face the totality of illusion. I came to crave it, not like it, need it, not live it in authenticity. I am guessing all – all that holds every pumpkin and the singing nightingale never removed me from completion. I removed myself, sought, felt, pounding heart, brief glitter, see not see, growing faint. And now I’m looking someplace else, latch on to distraction like the hungry calf to its mothers udder, addicted. A practitioner or prisoner, someone…someone needs to remember where he came from and where he is going.

Stop. Freedom is, and I am. Something is off, and I – who am I? Coming to think of it, I can’t remove myself from it. It is inside of me, or I am it, and warm, and flesh, and alive, throwing light and space across another dimension that reaches beyond the caverns of the heart and can be restrained by none. What four letter word cannot be contained and floats with selfless ease through all of us?