THE STROKES OF FORGETTING

He lies on the bed, head propped up on pillows. He stares at nothing and everything...blinks slowly and regularly, stations of the journey, moments of the dream. Stillness is part of the theme of life, part of the breath. To be silent with nothing, with only a whisper on his lips, whispers of tongues and lands, of skies and oceans, of angels and demons. He breathes in and out, slowly and silently, his eyelids open and close, blinks of softness. We are echoes of dimensions, echoes of lives in moments and motion. To be still, laying on the bed, hand propped up on pillows, is to be in the valley - wide plain, meandering river, humped back bridge, bright sun, pebbles gleaming in the strolling water...to be in the valley. He blinks, lies silently, and blinks again. He hums the notes, notes to starkness in the mist, coalescing the moment, always the moment. He sighs in essence, pushes his head back slowly, pillows absorbing. We are...he thinks...we are...nothing, everything, something? He lets his eyelids fall, lets his breathing shallow, and mumbles the strokes of forgetting.