I write with my eyes closed and still see, the words may appear on the page but they start in my mind, and it is within my mind that I see, and even with my eyes closed I can see the page, because the page is in my mind and my mind is where I write when I write with my eyes closed,
It’s fluid, and with ease, with my eyes closed I am not stunted and prohibited by the mistakes that are not yet mine, the mistakes that are not concrete or in stone, I have the means to correct, to repair that which is not yet done,
While I write with my eyes closed, I am in a free and forgiving state, without the pestering of angry red monsters or green slime machines or the shy sly blue-eroos that always confuse me, none of them bother me when I write with my eyes closed, and my thoughts seem more solid, ideas more formed, theories more firm so I may grasp ahold and ride them like a great wave pummeling my senses of reality, unlike when my eyes are open and they dissipate,
When I write with my eyes closed everything is in place, even when out of place, it finds its way to where it belongs, I can relax, wander, roam, drift off into the depths of conception, the space that conscious mind dreams of, where wishes touch wishes,
When I write with my eyes closed I reach beyond the veil and pull out handful by handful of inspiration, even during the times of stillness and silence, there is always something there, tending to the seedlings stretching for light,
When I write with my eyes closed I fall down a hole, a hole that may have the occasional rabbit, but not a hole of theirs, a hole of mine, and it’s not really a hole, it’s a space to fall and never hit the ground, to collide with the rot of complexity, the debris of recollect and memory, of misconception and perception,
When I write with my eyes closed I lose myself,
When I write with my eyes closed I understand.

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