Open The Curtains

I begin giving things away. A long time resident of my head, I tidy up, fold the past away, and gather what feels like a new method of thought—to admit that we just don't know, never knew, where we are going. Passengers waiting for departure.

A sense of the invisible in the corner of my vision, a glint of gold. A
secret life is moving between the trees; they are always whispering.
In the solitude, behind the rocks, in the tall grass, and below the
surface of water, meaning passes silently.

This is not dreaming. It's watching yourself in a dream. The way children play. Draw the curtains. Open the curtains. Vanishing or fusing? What course will this take? When the time comes that I can't feed myself or get up from where I lay?