Jesus took naps.  A storm was blowing and there he was, curled up peacefully in the ropes.  What the hell, Jesus?!  Oh, just have some faith.

This is where you get your ideas, the things you'll jot down.  The stuff of thought floats down as you rest, covering you like a fine litter, like leaves or ashes, like archeological bits and pieces, fragmented, unrelated.  You lie there and take it in, the strange things that don't make sense, the things that do make sense, intuitively, perhaps poetically.

Without the influence of a great father who loves you, you would get egotistical, perhaps.  You'd want to win races and conquer other men and women.  The honor involved in a duty would be less important to you.  You wouldn't love things as a loving father had taught you.

But with a good father, you don't forget about anyone.  You love them all, even if it must be a fair and even private love, of the kind found in dreams.   Your love of humanity might make you sad sometimes.  There's not much you can do to help the sick.  You're not one to upbraid them when they are sort of mean to you.  So, yes, from time to time you might walk around a little sad, for not doing a better job helping people, ever wondering how, or of what you should be doing.  You can only be very private about all this.  It can never be said.  You can only help people by being there, by being present in life, even if it is far away and unseen.   Nature is the only real help for them anyway.

Writing is found in an area where the unconscious is permeable.  You find things that don't make a whole lot of sense (as then they would be conscious) and you entertain them.  Maybe they are things that keep you going, as they are interesting, when you are bored and discouraged and no longer know how to put things into words and simply want to take a long nap, as if you were sick and could do nothing else but lie there half-conscious.

You give out your gifts, small gifts, unselfishly, and peacefully, gently, in tune with the nature around you that is always remembered, always sensed, even though it might not seem so.  And people will think their complicated conscious thoughts about such actions as yours and come to the conclusion that you are screwy, a bird, off, not headed in a positive logical economic direction.  And you can never argue with them or refute them, being largely incapable of that.  The great divide between the logical egotist, concerned with the world of society and the being who still manages to be part of nature and the natural world, once a more primary reality... what can you do about it?  Seasons go by, and you try to stay in touch with them with walks in the woods and things like that.  You nap, and things float down upon you the way they are and in half-dreams you sort of piece some sense about or out of them.

Who knows, maybe, what it means.  But you take it as a kind of a job.  Maybe people later on will make sense out of it, be understanding toward your dreams and habits, see something of themselves, as in a thousand years from now, making classical thinkers out of us, or simply understanding something about a humanity which is shared across the ages.

To be honest, you think of people you cannot forget sometimes in such states.  Maybe part of you regrets not imposing an understanding upon them.  Such things make you sad, but there was always the matter of not fitting into the world so smoothly and easily as you would have liked, but that too was why you became a writer, an interpreter of dreams, one who muses and thinks of thoughts that aren't of the nailed-down put-on-the-news kind, a child of "God."


Life, such a disappointment, at least if you set yourself up for that.