The wide-eyed wanderer wonders

Solitude feeds the lyrical - maybe that's why I get spiritual
Thoughts left alone waiting to die - my other breathes to keep them alive

Mirror-less, un-partnered: The mirror-ess finds that the writer consoles her
Though this hard machine shell is soulless, it obeys enough to delude the hopeless

Words themselves are the one present friend - electrode whispers, also heaven sent
Silent sadness is merely delayed for me, the sole speaker of my language today

I suspected that those words might escape me, for my helmeted head was blowing through the wind, defying breeze's smooth rhythm headstrong, bumping and jerking down an oft-violated path on the back of two spray-painted wheels with a motor attached. With my arm twisted around backwards to hold on, I learned and recalled that in these days, my waking life has become synonymous with my dream-scape. Tiny puppies rest on one of my large peachy fingers, licking up my palm-sweat. I am so parched that I gasp for water only to find that my bottle is filled with sandy mud which offers no relief. I choked and awoke, or did I swoon? I pace around reservoirs built by chain gangs under the heavy hand of deathly regime. I am sternly advised not to stray from my path, should dynamite surge up to remove my limbs.

It suddenly becomes fall and I am taken through fallen yellow leaves up a mountain, up and past golden Buddhas hiding in its caves, to a simple-seeming rock upon which my guide perches. He hits it with a stone and it resonates deeply, making a music not unlike the sound of the oldest gong of the oldest temple in China ringing in the new day. We guess that there are riches hidden inside, which if extracted would sit gloomily upon the finger of a spoiled fat lady, and this rock's seldom-heard song would never again be sung.

I witness epic legends of wandering and find myself a member of a strange sort of fellowship, though it is one with no destination. I question a quest and once my thirst is quenched, my inquisition's query is quietly quelled. Thirst for water and knowledge and legend and adventure blend into a thick banana milkshake charged with the stealthy power of a coconut, marvelously complete with juice milk and meat. I am led blindly through winding dusty trails into deeper and greener garden-jungle, where I am taken to age-old trees whose goddess-ly fruits I have never seen but have tasted before, though only in my dreams.

Feathery leaves topped with ethereal purple flowers blanket entire fields yet prove shy to the touch and recoil inside themselves upon sensing my unassuming touch. Other trees bear fruits that taste like biting firmly into a battery when you have braces on your teeth, and a companion urges me to smell a very nice leaf from a vine that turns out to perfectly replicate the aroma I dispose into a Cambodian toilet, on a bad day. This provocation rocket-fuels my weary legs with an honest laughter that carries me almost all the way back home, but not quite. After all my partner is gone now. I find comfort from this asphalt reality where I can, especially in the rice and among the stars.

I am discussing collective consciousness with my fellowship comrades, and we know what is true and what is possible when we sketch out connections that become swiftly painted by the colorful shades of our common understanding and compassion. Finally I know that my waking life remains solid, if only because my laughter is pure and my tears are salty, and I am grateful. I remember that I have no complaints, and that for now my sleep is full of shadows and peace.

If you should deny love, you will laugh but not all of your laughter, and you will cry but not all of your tears.