Take me to the quiet place in your mind
The one near the winter riverside, sitting on the snowy grass
The trees, they’ve always spoken to me
Even when they’re naked and sleeping
I can’t get away from the noise, the persistent stimulation
So, take me to that quiet place, the one in your mind
We’re far from our roots, the ancestral blood-ground
In your mind, the ground is a living being
When I press my hand to it, it melds, touches me
In that quiet place, the one in your mind
The sun is blocked by blue-cotton clouds
The silence is total, like a warm blanket
The quiet place is so still and peaceful
Cloistered monks know secrets of silence.
I wake before dawn
and the silence wraps around
me like a blanket
The silence of space is deafening.
January was a decent month for me, and I figured I’d give an update on things in an effort to advocate mental health. I’ve written about mental health a bit on this blog, but it usually falls by the wayside compared to the fiction and poetry stuff I share.
Over the past few years, I’ve developed some mental health routines. One of them is to track my mood every day on a phone app called Daylio. The app is free (I think) and it’s a great way to keep me present. It does feel weird to gather so much “data” on my mood – I can see charts, etc., broken down by day of the week, month, all sorts of things. But it’s still great.
i’ve always admired monasteries
monks cloistered from total noise
alone with demons
swimming in silence & striving
for divine union that no one
can name, but only point
to, the center of things,
the seat of the soul
(Photo by Josh Couch on Unsplash)
the silence of winter is not
such a terrible thing –
graying snowbanks by roadsides
reduced to slush & a thick sky
cold & like the finest cotton,
naked trees, dying leaves
hanging for dear life
reminding me of sledding down
icy hills, red plastic breaking
leaving shards to be buried below
like black bears snuggled in
(Photo by Fabrice Villard on Unsplash)
Was it your fate to be imprisoned here?
You sit in the lotus position, clear your mind,
practicing techniques The Collective taught you –
remember that Project Z must be defended,
Portia will penetrate your puny brain, drain
your memories to catch a glimpse of vital data,
the antidote to utter control over Techno-City.
You think God has left you, that perhaps
you’ve outgrown Him –
we all want to be gods now, in control of the things
that spin around us.
The screens go blank:
Androids dream of electric sleep,
and we’re lost in the forest,
unable to navigate.