Self as Storm

I rain across a country, my inner hillsides greening in the downpour. I drive down hard, fragments of myself into grass, washing dust down to the roots, consciousness like a cloud emptying itself, getting thinner until the sun beyond makes beams through my mind. Then all of a sudden there is only clear sky, my whole self condensed out onto the fertile steppes of some less cognitive land, my ego trickling away between all those blades.

Sometimes we grow so heavy from being awake. But then, strangely, consciousness emerges again, molecule by molecule I form again, clouding up the clear blue beyond, until I feel whole again. Losing myself, re-forming, pouring, evaporating. Maybe the mystics finally see that we can never stop being awake until that day we sleep for good. Maybe they do, but so many talk about stilling the mind, loosing self, becoming one with that larger land. My mystical storm is part of a cycle, pouring both down and up, rain and evaporation defining my orbit between forgetting and remembering. Forgetting and remembering I am.