Stream Of Consciousness

Behind these locked doors: quietness and well-being, outside: the agitation of existence, and a terrible storm! My small fluffy-white dog is fast asleep, curled comfortably on my lap; the other fluffy-white dog—the big, furred Samoyed, though blind, he closed his eyes and sleeps as soundly as this little one here. The brown one, though half-paralysed, he is relaxing his all four legs; and all three, take peacefully their respiration. Even the parrots in their cage, this time of day, sleep with the beaks in their plumage of blue and yellow-green. I look at the aquarium: he is not there! —the only fish left! — the flat cleaner, always working, glued to the glass like a leech, always working: this time of day, even he is sleeping inside a large sea-snail shell—ornaments to match his habitat: it must be the weather... The palm-tree leaves, like agitated shadows, bend... bend on the rhythm of a chaotic wind projected onto the door; but, I managed to save the dark-pink rose this morning; and now, few hours later, she unfurled her beauty: I think, she is happier here with me, with the dogs, the parrots, and the fish. I look at the pine-tree I planted in a large pot this winter, which I decorated as a Christmas-tree—I think he is happier now, too: green in his simplicity, in his natural beauty— (Is it a boy or a girl?) probably a boy...he is tall, vigorous, upwards stretching his branches: he does not need bracelets, globes, stars, angels, and lights to feel handsome, I guess... ‘Why do you write this? ' —Ah...! —the inner voice! Probably she feels ignored as I immersed myself in the simple, authentic awareness of the present moment; Ah…she wants me back in the past; in torments and agonies; she wants me to correlate everything with it; she wants me back in illusions and obsessions; or, she wants me to catapult into a mysterious future, to wreck me with worries, and frighten me with fears; she wants me to reduce and renounce my dreams; she wants me to self-sacrifice. Thus, the tranquillity vanished, disrupted by the interior voice which suddenly asked me, ‘Why am I doing this? ' writing about my surroundings, about how it feels to be present, with whole your being: —You see, now I divagate from my initial trajectory—I have to answer the ‘Voice, ' wondering if it belongs to me; and, if ‘yes, ' then why is she an antagonist—disrupting my serenity—and thus I find myself engaged in a dialog, and I almost forgot about my dogs, my parrots, my fish, the weather outside, and the agitation of existence—like my own agitation! Now, I am aware that I am writing: she disturbed me immensely! —now another parallel dialog emerges: —Oh! ...the rational...the practical! Being aware that I am writing, now, I have to be aware of what, and how I am writing—and the stream of consciousness: —it is gone! —there! — All because of my inner voice!