I like rainbows, they can’t be collected

This is me sitting, trying to be aware, not changing not wanting, just being. The here and now…I focus on a moment, but it’s already gone and becomes a memory and as I focus on the memory I realise it’s not real it’s my filtered version of how I imagine what was which changes to what is to be, a fantasy and delusion used to trick myself …forward backward forward backward, like a virtual ping pong ball from a 1970’s arcade game.

What does it mean to be me? And how can I be sure I am me? These questions spring to mind as I’m suspended between dread and impatience, dread of something terrible that never crystallises into a fear and impatience to get to achieve to have. Sometimes I feel I just want to bake a cake, that would be nice, with currants and raisins and then share it with someone I love.

The cat seems unimpressed and looks at me with half closed eyes that spell contempt. Would I like to be a cat? Not my cat he hasn’t fucked in years…but then again he doesn’t seem to have the need to strive…how would that be? How? What if? And other questions I use to sabotage and frustrate myself.

The older I get the less I want rules, models and established ways of doing things, but the more I hang on to them…why so much internal chatter? Who’s talking to who and what for? It sounds childish, but I’d like to send a Christmas card in summer but I know I won’t let myself. Where did I learn that I cant do that? Maybe the same place I learnt lots of other silly rules. I’d like to get thrown out of the cinema for smoking… where did I learn that it’s “bad” to get thrown out?