Let Drift Happen
Your secret dreams are not barred from you, but come from the crossroads, strange out of the way places just outside of town, and require open definitions of self ready for renewal.
Let web-of-wyrd dream-reflect in neural net. Squirm-shift between interstices and drift within the fabric. Breathing room within lattices allows passage. Mind permeates all about. Beyond yourself, beyond categorizations. You are the protoplasma outside taxonomy.
Radical openness to being inherent in neotony and ongoing imprinting by world itself beyonds us across categories. Neither human nor animal nor plant nor mineral, but all of these and between. Not to be pinned down. Mercurial, as Odin moves, squirming between fish and bird and serpent.
Walk outside, warm air, move to where knees say crouch, hold knees, look about, close eyes. Mind soars. Outside routine lies currents truly current, and ancient. Like wisps of smoke, easily they corridor you into the ancient meander. Easily you are something other than you are. Truly your chance lies in the luck outside. "You" as the accumulation of what you have been is husk. Ask Odin to breeze one as seeds with parachute wings out from husk, into the world's blur-squirm, high-speed, slow-motion retina traces. A body is nothing but a set of possibilities for motion.
Urd is kinder than thought. Things work out just right, in the strangest ways. Everything is messed up and beautiful. More beauty awaits. This drama has not yet ended. Our adventure just begins. Doom speaks the blind ore, counterfeit of the sun, which cannot see beyond its day to the day beyond. A communist world of weirdness, where rye shall self-sprout, and the oak again yield up its nonbitter fruits. For we shall be blur, such color and vibrancy bled into world-flow itself, rejoined to the universal gift. Gebu. For when we are so undefined, the world's crannies await to niche-embrace us into unforeseen labyrinths. We are the nomads moving from form to flow through uncanny vital force. Drift happens. And in those drifts, the secret treasures. The never-imagined wonder. The ambiguous opportunities. It is yours, for free sharing, if you will undo your clinging. Is your hoard a soul-lock? Who owns whom? Self may step out from self at any time, any age, and youth begins again in that chrysalis-blooming, wing-unfolding moment. Fly. And if you do not fly, then skate. For the elves skate. And the elves are light and wink-behind-the-woods beauty, such mischief giving tiny hints in the bright eyes. All will be well ... in the strangest ways.