At times, I disappear into a wave of stillness
and all the frantic buzzing of our modern ways cool down to a slight hum.
At times, chaotic noise remains…
leave it, can’t erase it, don’t become it. 
My dominant frequency becomes my breath:
In to 5, out to 5. Rhythm is constant, it’s synchronized intimacy.

Thoughts crowd the sky, clouds block the sun and moon, there is no peace until I make peace.

A mantra worth the repeat: there is no peace until I make peace. 

Let the clouds drift, each nimbus tries to rile me, but I’m Stonehenge to a Dyson fan, no movement occurs. Yet anxiety rises, flows in and around my skull, an electric mist. 

Slight shock then a fade, once it’s accepted. Here, typhoons become cotton, magma...

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