Driving in early morning fog so dense it seems solid. Like in clouds. A reoccurring dream while wide awake. The barely visible road and the empty fields of vision to each side cut the blacktop road like a knife. Moving forward and then slipping away into the grayest of grays. There’s nothing else in your sight of vision… just fog. You hurdle through time and space continuously. You can speculate on the parallel universe somewhere. On another level ponder altered realities way out there in the void. In some far out plane of existence another me is driving in the fog going somewhere, which could be everywhere all the time, or not at all. The mind makes illusions in smoky morning fog. There are shadows moving in cloudy vapors. Maybe a deer or some other apparition including me may become fresh roadside roadkill.
I imagine being mowed over by a speeding 18-wheel killer truck pulverizing me and every other me in many more different worlds. The pain is real. Giving a whole new meaning to the big bang. In theory none of this should even matter. There’s no proof of who imagined what when. Did we imagine this world? So we could have a place to hang out in, be fruitful and multiply. Or did the world dream us up to justify its existence? Projections of pure thought in a wild naked nature of everything.
A mixed bag of emotions and knee-jerk reactions. Jumbled nerves and cellular stimuli. We infect the planet. A virus thriving on fresh ideas. The single-minded, one-sided amoeba drunk on itself in the imagining mind’s eye. Because it's always now any hour someplace. So it doesn't really matter and you shouldn't try to sweat it out. Nobody cares more than you in every universe. In this world or any other, the “we” that’s always me attempts to speak. Echoing platitudes on living a semblance of real life imagined. Existing in the truth of a split nanosecond. The plain and simple of just being there and here together. Take it away maestro. The music of quantum leaps.
How did we get here? Where do we go? It's always been this way for all we know. This year’s winter was extreme. In another part of the world maybe it's always summer. Or you're just lost in California, the Louisiana bayou, a Florida swamp up to your neck in quicksand or hanging out on some tropical island counting stars, kissing multiple moons and drinking all the oceans. Embrace the sky as your tears turn to rain. At the same time it’s a sunny afternoon along the way down a different road. A mirror image in another world of pain, suffering, war and hatred. Fear of a location called earth. It's like keeping time in a magazine or eating life like it’s a breakfast cereal. Spread the word there's strange stuff brewing in the tempestuous teapot of time.
A beautiful spring morning in my dreams of dreaming about the weather and the many alternate realities we may be in. Fair weather or foul is in the eye of the beholder. A better day on a distant planet right around the corner from here. Your old neighborhood. Make a left at the next star. If I lived here I'd be home by now. Are we there yet? Is anybody home? It seems I just arrived at the future past due at a later date. I was never really here or there. That’s where I was last time. I saw you there too. For every answer there are a million questions.
A concise history of my many worlds and the sum total of none. Roaming an ever-expanding mental trip of diminishing returns. A journey to regions unknown but somehow familiar. Where do all of us go that are all me with myself and I from here? Now your worlds are bleeding into mine. Dumping requests in my world. Stepping all over my scenarios. I and me find it necessary to invent us. Daily occurrences and routines of chance and happenstance on a schedule of maybe or maybe not.
This force of nature, whether it’s truth, love, life and death all conspire in time relative to us. The power of love and hate drives every breath and heartbeat. The mystery of life is the fog we wander in from place to place. Sometimes there’s a break in the clouds and the light shines through our souls. It gives joyous meaning to an otherwise cold cruel world of our imaginations. In a place near or far from our dreams. Making confusion clear as morning fog.