I focus on the empty space, shadows on the edge of vision, a slither of reflected light, things happen when I move, vision now blurred. I focus again on the empty page, memory of a few minutes before, mists, shapes, currents, rhythms, pulses, these energies into the morning, memory always blurred. I write. The words are blurred, memory and words mingle. Words in and out of focus. Sounds, ears always open to sound, most of the time I don't hear these sounds, I close my eyes, for a moment, the page white, a texture from slightly raking light. Words, cloudy, sparkling, outlines of thought, images in mind, words from images, words drawn out, on the page, this pen, a line, of thoughts.
I realise I've been writing without my 'reading' glasses on. I realise this blurred way of seeing feels closer to my memory. Shadow of clouds, crescent of moon, mists hanging around trees, a Robin sings, the water sparkles. These energies. Reality is elusive. This reality I'm immersed in, no subject, no object, a mingling, a dance. A blank page drawn upon. I write some more wobbly words.