There is cold air at my bare back this morning as I write. My yellow comforter wrapped about my front. My wrists resting on the the keyboard cause my entire laptop to jump with my own pulse. I notice this through the reflection of the window behind me on the screen in front of me pulsing up! up! up!
Sometimes I don’t want to write. But then I am still with all that is, so that a singular beam of creation may push it’s way through, out through my third eye and onto the screen in front of me. My fingers only move so that this all makes sense, connected in a physical way to the physical world. Made manifest.
And then there is only up! up! up! in the next coming silence.
(According to Wikipedia, “In medicine, a pulse represents the tactile arterial palpation of the heartbeat by trained fingertips.”)