Drifting

DRIFTING

I lay so silently, serenity surrounding me. I feel as if I’ve become serenity itself. I can feel my own heart beating, rocking me to sleep with its rhythm. I’m reading a book, but I’m not reading the words. I remember being on the last page, but in the brief undulations of waking, I’ve turned a page, and my eyes have fallen across a sentence that makes no sense. The last thing I remember is, “by dripping paint on the surface,” and yet now I’ve arrived at, “and thus the digital realm serves as another art medium.” Quite the jump. But now all that fades, concern ceases, blood beats. I feel it most in my ears, whispering to me only those things the dream or subconscious can understand. All other sounds are background. I realize another sound though, another coming from me. It’s the sound of the ocean tide of a morning on a sun-stained Florida beach. It reminds me of senior trip. In fact that’s where I am in my mind, that same place, hearing that same ocean, but again another undulation of literal upon the mass of what is now abstract. I realize what I hear is my own breathing, in and out of my nostrils, and what I thought were the sounds of seagulls was the high and soft whisper of the air going through its passage, highlighting heavenly waves. Now I’m back, back to the beach, this is reality now, and though it doesn’t feel like it, I know it is. I like it here. I think I’ll stay awhile. I hear familiar voices, but I know it’s all just in my head