**sorry for the lateness, I lost my book and just acquired a new one

“What an invitation to dream what one sees and to dream what one is…Who is existing?  What a relaxation for our own existence!”  (161)

My existence is exhausting. whirling, turning, maelstrom, never resting, never ceasing, never silent.  Words and dreams and moments spinning in a vortex, nothing sorted, nothing orderly.  I try to control the internal with the external but the one doesn’t translate well into the other.  If I can only know who I am when my mind is quiet, how will I ever know who I am?  If I don’t exist as a static being I can be reborn every moment, a phoenix shaking its feathers afresh every nanosecond.  There is freedom in the ether, but can there be freedom without captivity?  Who is looking out at me from my own eyes?  Can these eyes see the many faces of the many-faceted gods who cannot exist without me to dream them into creation so that they can in turn create me?