introduction to consciousness

Unconsciously: half-formed thoughts not said. knowing something found a while ago. okay and then stirring of sour doubt. cycle of falling and salvation played out in a day. the dimensions. edges that aren't really frayed.

Consciously: cold autumn rain and wet leaves like bleary-lamp-post-Dickens-London. longing for somehow-knows-what. fiction and reality blurring so beautifully. the past trembles deep within somewhere, thrumming softly, and my fancy flies to the usual haunts: someone whose name I do not know walking down a cobbled street and Thoreau and Emerson talking like friends in Concord and Napoleon losing at Waterloo and men whose long black coat-tails billow out behind them and purposeful strides and the art of stance and worlds of spirit inside red leaves.

You know I want to write a more hopeful surrealism. Instead of something wrong just beneath the conscious surface, I want to evoke something unnamably beautiful behind the visible.