I wonder what it's like to be real, without people looking. I know for a moment or two every once in a while. . . .
Do they know? Do you think they know? I don't think they do.
When the words work backwards, and the math comes in cascading colors and I know how to explain the music of the stars, it doesn't matter. The joy is extravagant, extraneous, extra, so extraordinary, not ex-trordinary, but extra-ordinary, as in beyond. Every branch, every twig of every small tree waits quivering in the almost dawn, especting the sun at any moment, but it's not there. The rain comes instead.
But the rain isn't a sadness.
It's a shower. It's clean air and a ligher sky flled with hope, telling me my heart is right, my heart is true to north, to my soul. Could it be? Could it please be?
And the sun is joy.
Not like the stars or the moon, like the sun, it shines.
On my face, on the twig, drops of water magnify and make me brave when the world is close up. I turn my head a bit and I find by design reflections of who I am.
So close up, it seems that my heart wants to make the world even closer.
--me strauss, Letting me be/Thinking