A slow, peaceful rain, splashing my pant legs as I walked into work. Not a dreary day, but a sleepy day, and the sound of the rain hitting the flat roof was a lullaby. Just an ordinary day, like so many others lost in the stream of memory, sliding away towards the trunk and roots of living.
I wonder what makes this moment now. Tomorrow will be, yesterday has past, but now is alive, even though the soft rain blurs the distinction.
In my dreams there is no now, no future, no past--they swim together in the murky depths, murmuring memories and concrete visions, floating around in some sixth consciousness that evaporates with the warmth of waking. And waking becomes more like sleeping, the memories drifting out towards the branches of living, swaying with the wind and slapping against the wet leaves--everything blends in a wakeful dreaming of consciousness, aware that everything is drifting together and now is losing its reputation. But I listen to the thudding rain drops, and think some more about sleeping.