a moment of bliss
it’s that time before consciousness of inarticulate
awareness
it’s the dawn of self-consciousness,
I only just perceiving
it is,
wherein all you understand
is the
contented sentiment
of existence
before the spoiler of reflection
profundity
is like a great smog,
the reaching ever further into the
heavens
to drag them down into our heads,
the very thing which prevents us
from
getting our heads
into the heavens (cf. Chesterton)
as i lay in cool sheets,
the fan encouraging the breeze
to
blow over my contented face,
i prolong the nostalgic experience
of existing as
my primate ancestors
: a lack of that vile blessing, my mind
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