A fizzle of ether in my brow, a eyeless image born bastard. I find bizarre these tort fleeting flies, netted, if only for moments, never to be pinned and named and classified but to escape once more, perhaps to be netted briefly once again, perhaps not. Where is their parentage? Who is looking after these flitting scarlet whisps?
Can these prozaically electric impulses, like static shock off wound tight nylon, add and sum to me?
Can all ‘I’ be but battery exerting a tiny clacking volt from one synapse to click-clacking tother? Can it?
If so, how grand then must mother-soil’s deep brooding mind be. The sheer force of tight sheet lightening cracking and whipping and punching against damp sullen soil. That must be a thought that could change the world (if one lets mind fly to a place where earth be as sentient as you and I), a thought so powerful that thoughts are changed forever after. A crisp slice of pure energy semi-automatically gunned toward soft prone open and pliant loam.
Over a million times (some say 8 million times) a day does lightening strike this tiny orb on which we live. That be some heavy thinking this big bitch be doing. I do hope they are pleasant dreamy lullaby notions that swim upon and under our home, that which we call earth.