Taking control, he looked at himself in the mirror,  
his eyes tracing the lines and hairs and circles.

He sat and gazed out the window for a time, noticed the street signs and the birds.

He listened to the noises coming past the open door
He stood and walked through the day until he sat, on a bus,  
or next to a tree, or beside a homeless woman.  
He chose not to act or speak but simply to be.

He found a quiet place to wonder  
how the tips of his fingers could move a pencil with such minute rhythm  
above a line of awareness, connecting him to everyone  
who ever read  
or died.

He travelled in and out of consciousness, to the stars and back,  
and all his journeys made experiences,  
but his awareness made wisdom.

He thought of love, and this thought became  
his breath, and the sky,  
and the day ahead was a clean sheet to write upon,  
to be continued,  
to start for the first time.