My mind feels quite blank sometimes, lately.

It seems to turn itself off.

I don’t mean it is all Zen, in silence.

I mean it feels switched off.

Disconnected.

From my own body.

From its environment.

From the immediate surroundings.

As if not caring to interact.

Sitting here, in the sun, soft rays filter through the single, manually blown glass. These windows are from the 60’s, like the building itself. A certain degree of warmth filters through.

And this shy, mild heat does not dare to fill up the living room. It stays quietly on this corner, where it settled. The brisk autumn air conquered the room some weeks ago, and doesn’t seem eager to give up its flag.

Sitting here, I feel Mr. Cold behind my neck, and Ms. Warmth on my lap.

There.

By noticing the light and temperature of the room in my body, and the disconnection of my mind, I (who’s I?) just managed to bridge the gap and land back Here. Now.

Just now, I can feel my chest rising and falling as I write. This moment.

I would like to remember this moment.

I am quite aware the noticing quality of my consciousness could very soon be gone from Here, flying off carelessly, in dancing silence, like a butterfly does.

Sweet, ephemeral, butterfly, would you stay with me for a few more breaths and lines?

How did I (this elusive I) manage to SEE you, fleeting consciousness of colorful wings?

I have been sitting here, in the lit corner of this plant-filled space, desiring to write, searching for the tepid embrace of our friendly local star. Feeling the dense fog inhabiting my upper floor. Clueless on how to start or what to write about. An underlying message of “no pressure, whatever comes out is fine”.

And then, describing the blankness of my mind (is it really mine, or is it a collective mind?), as if by describing the mind landscape’s shapes and colors a magic spell was cast, the fog vanished and there you were.

Here you are, delicate butterfly, duchess of consciousness.

Your visit is precious and long.

Beholding your fluttering wings is mesmerizing.

Your presence, which becomes my presence, adds a surly velvet texture to the air caressing my tongue and palate, on its journey to the steamy caverns of my lungs.

This low autumn sun, on its brief seasonal trip, is already beginning to cast a shadow on the page my right hand glides on, pouring some black ink, forming almost readable scribbles. Scribbles that narrate an encounter with you, butterfly, who have unlocked the gates of the Now.