Whatever Happened to Grover

There is love; there is life. That's what there is. I don't know if there really is anything else. All we see and perceive comes from our past. It comes from the preconceptions we have established as we grow up. If I go for a walk, I see a stream. That stream is bubbling blue froth at the seams. It seems as if it is double toil and trouble, seething and frothing and waiting to gain strength to rear up. It seems a frightful thing, but it seems as if the frothiness could be the blue fur of Cookie Monster. I don't think it's Grover. I can see what is black and white as if waiting to be formed into big bulging eyes, but I see no red anywhere about to roll up into a little round nose. It could be as frightening as the Stuff Puff Marshmallow man. To much of anything good thing can never be good. But, what about too much of nothing. Nothing is everything and everything is nothing. Oh, my I'm forcing things too much. I should just keep talking and sighing and writing whatever comes into my mind. Just close my eyes and let it drift, drift on down to the sea shore, drift on down to the snake pit, drift an down and ease on down, ease on down the road. It's such a pretty place the road in autumn, in autumn, in autumn, autumn, autumn. The time of year I most wanted to get to after the long, lonely summer. I was still lonely in the stands with the band all around me. But, at least I was a part of something. A place where I knew that people knew I was there and that I was a part of what was happening. Even though I was separated by my own shyness and fears from others, I had a shallow fulfillment in knowing that those around me were participating in something that included me, that I was a part of that something, that that something was what it was because I was part of it, that what they accepted and that their awareness of that something was something that included me. I don't recall really feeling camaraderie, just that I was part of what made that something something that they were a part of too and that their knowledge of that something was that the something included me. So, round and round I go not really getting there, always circling around the truth that I can't seem to pick out of the air. The reality of everything is just like the air. It's there; you can't see it. It can't move you unless it moves very hard. Sometimes you have controll, sometimes you don't. But, where was I. Was I really anywhere. I see a locomotive coming down the tracks right at me. But, it's a locomotive of the past and seems as unreal as a painted picture on the walls of the Woolaroc museum. I have no fear. It will not harm me. It is only a facsimile of nothing that can harm me. Nothing can harm me, whatever that real me is. My body may perish; my mind may go. But, the real me is forever once it had a beginning. From the moment of conception I began to change the world, the universe, the holy hand grenade? Maybe you could even say that my existence really began with the conception of the thought of me being, the thought of my parents having a child. Of course, that can only be a case by case basis sort of thing because there are many people born without ever having been thought of before they were physically conceived. I think maybe the end of my story is coming 'round as my mind begins to fog, my eyes begin to grow heavier and heavier until the break of dawn. My mind now feels like a lead brick. Just dense and hard without much going in or going out, just suspended waiting to be filled again. Maybe with the actual break of down, it will warm up, ready to begin anew the cycle of life, a life of hopefully bringing peace to all and to all a good night.

Amen.