Can You See Me Now?

I slouched through the rain to get to the train and hung my tail between my legs for three hours and eight dollars to go surfing in Manly. Halfway through the two-hour bus ride of broken ipod, thoughts on the negative side of the coherence spectrum, and the positive side of the self-deprecation spectrum, I realized I could not see reality. This is because I have an extra-excitable visual cortex, and when a mysterious set of circumstances combine I get migraines.

My migraines have beautiful visuals. As my migraine expanded on the bus I took note of the colors and drew a picture of the vibrant vibrating blind spot. 
Once I got to the beach I told the surf instructors that I couldn’t see properly and wouldn’t be able to surf.  One jumped around saying: “Can you see me now?” We re-scheduled for the following Tuesday.
I promised myself I would get to sleep by midnight on Monday night. I keep getting caught in the undertow of time though, and in twenty minutes two hours would pass. As I made quesadillas with the rest of my capsicum, onion, beans, garlic, scallions, tortillas and salsa an audience from “Café Jake” filtered in with hungry scarlet eyes. Romy and I entertained them with our Dadaist commentary as I fed them the rest of my groceries.
By the blazing sun of 8:00 am I was unsure of how I could transfer my surfing skills from the dreamtime to reality, but assumed coffee would help. Amped on the bus I reflected on the heaps of offerings I’ve recieved from Australia. By the time I was practicing standing up on the board I realized that each time I stood I would come closer to passing out. I was a messy mixture of sleep-deprivation and dehydration and had to forsake my last surfing adventure. Once again I failed, tail between my legs. Opportunity gone, day wasted.
By the time I was back on the endless hours of public transit I was less dizzy and tired of feeling wretched. I decided to stop feeling bad and wrote out ideas for projects I’m working on. I get so attached to perfection that I forget it’s subjective, and that I am always in control of how I react to things. I try so hard to be good, but there’s no good or bad. The truth isn’t a thing. In the evening Romy and I meditated.
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