We are refugees from the police action of the soul.
We have scattered
Some to the mountains of Keep Busy, Don't Stop
Others lie low in fog and swamp.
The uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach
It's where I fled.
I crouch here and pull the strings
That make the shell lurch on.
It's difficult to decipher its needs.
I've made a few tracks for it...
from bed to kitchen to tv to email.
The mind imagines marvels
But how to make the shell-shocked shell comply?
We bunker down in these detention centres
while the home wars rage on.
We yearn for our Dreaming
But those who go back to the Mother Country are surprised.
We still yearn.
Because it's not a place,
It's our soul we have deserted.
We left it bleeding, shivering,
How do we return?
Our neighbours don't know we've gone.
Sometimes we don't know we've gone.
I've kept one trinket close,
a silver thread of hope.
Some could grab nothing
and didn't make it.
I propose a new nation
The Land of Survivors.
We displace no one,
no Middle East Mess.
All we need do, apparently,
is take one tiny step
from left brain to right.
From lonely ego settlement
to connected conscious community.
I've found a map.
I'm setting out right now.
Wish me luck.
And as things collapse in the 'real world'
People would do well to look to us...
We know how to survive tough times.
I wrote this after reading Jill Bolte-Taylor's 'My Stroke of Insight'