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Mind as compost.
Compost as mind.
We seem to be permeated with other beings.
Our bodies are made up of so many beings it's hard to know where one bit ends and another begins. Being is strange.
Being human is even stranger. So we learn to live as a human being. Just being is difficult enough. We try and make the best of the reality we have, and I suppose most of that reality is embodied, everything else is appearance.

I look around, take everything in in a moment, people, lighting, coffee machine, music, ambient, ambience, atmosphere, outside I see sun light illuminating a wall, shadows of trees, I like trees. These words, a few minutes to write, the moment a second. Beyond seconds and moments, things happen, to me, around me, with me, in a dream 'me' would just dissolve into another state of being.

Like a dream, to write, with intent.
Intent. A pen, paper, blank page.
Thoughts drift. Page blank. I become aware of holding the pen. And my breathing. I put the pen down. Stare at the blank page. Thoughts drift. Aware of achy back, tinnitus, sore feet. I stare at the blank page. Breathing. A sigh, a sound. Everything around slows down.  I stay with that long moment, a resonance. A blank page, an intent, a dream.

Intent.
I go out to write.
I pick up my notebook, a couple of 'pilot' pens.
And walk.
Find somewhere to sit, open the notebook, pick up a pen and write, maybe nothing, a line, a shape, a letter, a word may appear. I stay with writing; writing like drawing, sketching, lines on blank paper. Words appear, they are just words, any words will do, not with intent, not to make sense. The intent was / is to write each day, which has become this pen, this A5 notebook, this pen, this place, a page, an hour  - and a coffee.

Writing, notebooks, compost, appearance, reality, movement, breathing. And, now, this place, the surroundings, begin to distract, its 08:08, time to move my self in a different way, into this day.

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