Dream of: 11 June 2020 "Finding A Poem"  

  I am walking on the sidewalk of a run-down area of a town. When I step up to a corner, I notice lying on the ground a short, orange cap for a syringe. I look around and wonder if actual syringes might be lying around here. I do not see any. I think to myself that when you see syringes lying around on the ground, then you know that you are not in a good area of town.

As I continue walking, a couple people are walking in the same direction as I, and a suspicious-looking black-haired female begins walking along beside me on my left. A police car rides by. I hope the police do not think I am with the woman. She turns off to the left and I continue on by myself.

I pick up an old, browned piece of a newspaper which is lying on the ground. I see a poem written on one section of the age-browned page. I tear off the poem and keep it.

I continue walking. I remember that I had a bicycle which I left sitting outside a store three days ago. I need to pick up the bicycle. I doubt if it is even still there. Someone has probably stolen it. I could go to the store and ask someone at the store if they had seen it, but I resign myself to thinking that the bicycle is probably lost.

I notice that a tall, silver-wire fence has been erected alongside the highway which is on my right. The wire fence prevents me from walking onto the highway. I know that I need to walk along that highway to reach the store. Now, the wire fence is preventing me from going in that direction. I am going to have to walk around the wire. I see people ahead of me walking on the sidewalk through a sort of wire tunnel-passage through this completely fenced-off area. I think I am going to also need to pass through that wire-tunnel. This passage is going to require more time to reach the store.

I finally end up at the abode where I am presently living. It seems like a small room in an old wooden house. I have carried some stuff in with me including a box of old papers and files. I think I need to sort through these papers and files and dispose of those which I no longer need. I notice a pale red file among the other papers and I think I have had that folder for a while. I also have the poem on the browned paper which I found. I look at the paper and think something like, "I don't really need to keep stuff like that. I just need to get rid of that."

I start tossing disposable items into a can — old papers and bric-a-brac which I have hung onto over time. I think I need to start clearing stuff out and make life a little simpler.

Commentary of 11 June 2020

"Attachment" may have turned into my greatest shortcoming.

poetry and dreams

both have origins in the

universal mind

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