I did turn it off, sort of. I mean I stopped paying attention to it for a while.

I finished listening to that video I documented and ranted at length about yesterday.

Then after all that I took a shower.

For this post, I’m slacking off and taking it easy, with poetry instead of prose.

***

Went to the workshop
Took off the headphones
Took out a legal pad
and wrote this

The tall brunette mistress I tried hard to avoid
is me.
The tiny blonde woman I embraced once more this time
is me.

They were both rich
and I am not,
was .,.
not.

The lost blind man who was
not actually blind but really
was lost
is me.

I’m not fully convinced that the real people
I know, who also appeared in the dream
were me,
but again so far that is only a theory.

Was the dream a warning?
That my being Lost is Imminent?
Or a warning that your whole structure of living
and thinking means that you are?

Or a tacit acknowledgment
that yes, each one of the real people
who also appeared
is me?

Sometimes I am slapped across the face
by the impression that most of the minor characters
are aneffin’ waste of space
and bandwidth.

But if that impression is valid
and my lectodivine self-enquiry
is authentically performed, then
I am obligated by honor to ask whether I am, too.