if you were walking and
trying to think ahead, 2 steps in time ahead, of how you would feel precisely when you got there - ahead - and your thoughts are all floating like a novel, and when you get there, 2 steps ahead, and you compare it to your imagination, it's always the itch, the one on your scalp, that you hadn't foreseen; or the way that woman reached into her bag, the way the other woman glanced through the glass, of the door, she pushed, to come out where you were, right then, or the way you saw her glancing; the way you had never noticed the lightbulbs in a cross above you, x's, two x's of lightbulbs, arrayed across the sky, and how could you never have seen them?
and you walk that way, hearing every sound and always thinking ahead of yourself, and comparing, imagine, feel, imagine, feel, waves, a private, solitary ocean.
it's only the discrepancies that make you believe that you're walking in something real, the difference between your belief, and what happens.
then a song comes into your head, and a picture on a magazine, and then you're standing there again, now, in your white socks and black shoes, and your blue button up shirt and thinking, the face on the magazine, singing, in my ears.
but that doesn't bother you, that thought, not anymore, because once you would have thought it was nostalgia, but now you know it's something else: you discovered the dial to tune the alignment of the image and the scene, until you hit a resonance, and you've discovered how to feel nostalgia for the present moment, you synced them up, you're hyperaware.
trying to think ahead, 2 steps in time ahead, of how you would feel precisely when you got there - ahead - and your thoughts are all floating like a novel, and when you get there, 2 steps ahead, and you compare it to your imagination, it's always the itch, the one on your scalp, that you hadn't foreseen; or the way that woman reached into her bag, the way the other woman glanced through the glass, of the door, she pushed, to come out where you were, right then, or the way you saw her glancing; the way you had never noticed the lightbulbs in a cross above you, x's, two x's of lightbulbs, arrayed across the sky, and how could you never have seen them?
and you walk that way, hearing every sound and always thinking ahead of yourself, and comparing, imagine, feel, imagine, feel, waves, a private, solitary ocean.
it's only the discrepancies that make you believe that you're walking in something real, the difference between your belief, and what happens.
then a song comes into your head, and a picture on a magazine, and then you're standing there again, now, in your white socks and black shoes, and your blue button up shirt and thinking, the face on the magazine, singing, in my ears.
but that doesn't bother you, that thought, not anymore, because once you would have thought it was nostalgia, but now you know it's something else: you discovered the dial to tune the alignment of the image and the scene, until you hit a resonance, and you've discovered how to feel nostalgia for the present moment, you synced them up, you're hyperaware.