Autopsy of the Mind
It's 955 days into this journey now, 1.8 million words of contemplation
that I may see my way clear of the ship-rope knot of old habits,
old patterns,
old thinking.
*
Morning meditation with incense smoke curling over the little
wooden table where the tea candle sits, casting shadows in the darkness
before sunup.
Mantras,
visualizations, lifted airborne.
*
Sacred work to start each day,
this autopsy of the mind, of the soul.
Helping me learn.
Helping me grow.
Helping me heal.
About the Creator
David Muñoz
I'm a recovering artist in Austin, Texas. Stoic student, mystic, writer, poet, guitarist, father, brother, son, friend. I am an eternal soul living a human experience. Part of that experience is working through my stuff by making art.
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Broken Glass
Of all the students Mr. Benedick expected to see in his office, he did not expect the boy who was sitting there. What grade was this one, he thought? He walked over to his desk, looked at the folder Ms. Diner had left out for him, and opened it. There was a photo inside of it, taken from last year’s picture day. Not much growth; not too different. The boy sitting in front of him had nothing strange or unusual in his file, if a child’s life defined by having “nothing disruptive or regretful” in it could be called fine. Mr. Benedick also realized that “life” was an anagram of “file,” and wondered where that thought came from as he stared at the boy in front of him. Benny Duncan. Grade Four. Beloved by all his teachers so far. He had seen the boy playing with the other boys his age in the school yard at recess. Four Square and foot hockey. A normal-looking kid. A normal kid… And here he was, after a very stupid moment with the fire alarm and a shoe.
By Kendall Defoe 4 days ago in Fiction
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