A Notice Meditation

I notice the weight of the blanket on my legs. The tightness of my shorts. The feeling of one hand weighing on top of the other on top of my chest.

I notice what appears to be light around the left edge of my closed eyes. What they tell me are floaters. Luminous squares that grow and then disappear.

Notice the sound of the dog playing with a toy drowning out the sound of the air conditioning drowning out the motor of the fridge. All of it above the high pitch subtle whine always in my ears.

Notice the voice asking whether it is a whine or static, if there is a scientific explanation I once knew for it. Notice the promise to do research, to write about what I find.

Notice the pain in my right ankle. Notice the breath in and out, which triggers reminders to always pay attention to the breath. Notice my memory of the man in front of the temple. Notice the silhouette of someone in front of my vision. The silhouette that never resolves to anything.

Notice the process of scanning through memory. Notice the moment rising where I have an urge to turn onto my side. Notice the decision about my shoulder, about feet on top of feet, about being more receptive to the vibes when I am on my back.

Notice the heaviness of my head, the turn, the right hand grabbing the left clavicle, the hangnail on my ring finger, the soreness felt, and release when legs are straightened, the thickness of tongue in my mouth, the memory of grey wet gravestones, of riding bikes, of rust.

Notice the voice taking notes, and notice the one watching the voice taking notes, and someone listening to that inner voice, and someone watching the one listening, and the dog shifting its weight, and the itch behind the left ear, and the shapes becoming clear. And dissolving.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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