I like to think I mold and create the world when my eyes are shut, that I make a place for my ideas to unfold, and space for my own personal hidden gardens as they look up, like open handkerchiefs, and peruse and hold the sky.
Here is Sylvia Plath. Perhaps I misunderstand her, or perhaps there is a reason she needed the outlet of suicide and I reach so open-heartedly and gratefully to grasp each new day. I know this world exists without me and I am grateful to honor and openly hold my small part.
“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.”