A New Age

Will there really be a morning?

Is there such a thing as day?

Could I see it from the mountains

If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like water-lilies?

Has it feathers like a bird?

Is it brought from famous countries

Of which I have never heard?

Oh, some scholar! Oh some sailor!

Oh, some wise man from the skies!

Please tell a little Pilgrim

Where the place called morning lies!

Emily Dickinson asks  the brilliant question about morning, but already knows the answer. The place called morning is not a place; it's an expansion of thought.  It's a space-less intersection where one life becomes another. It's an energy point where dreams become manifested realities, as well as tangible physical experiences. Morning is fresh air and symbolic messages wrapped in a blended blanket of consciousness. I create mornings to express the beauty of being, because I'm much more than a forgetful wanderer, who is lost in his own dream. My physical awakening is a gesture of the universal metamorphosis which continually expresses change without judgments. A morning lifts the oceans and spreads them through the halls of consciousness where waves of energy sip from flexible straws of eternity.

Emily understood the meaning of mornings and delightfully dressed them in questions to wet humanity's appetite for what is already known, but ignored. Mornings launch rockets of desires, which become experiences filled with diverse beliefs and fearful illusions. A morning has feet like water-lilies basking in the sun and ruffled feathers, like a bird who bathing in a shady pond. It graciously turns into a day like a loving butterfly that turns back into a worm, in a cycle that repeats itself. Dualistically stable, the morning feeds a herd of broken dreams and mends them back to health again.

How easy it is to get caught in the simplicity of a morning, which majestically and seasonally brings me to the doorstep of awareness, where I patiently wait to recognize what flows so magnificently through my mind. One morning is a million mornings covered in a fine mist of time which I ignorantly call one, in order to identify my linear behavior and presence. Conceived in the flash of an electro-magnetic wonderland  morning looks into the reflective face of consciousness, while another morning sits in the clay of another tomorrow, which is silently grinning at the dawn of a new age.

http://www.shortsleeves.net/

http://halmanogue.blogspot.com/