Dreams are the poems of science

I have a body, or perhaps I am a body, or perhaps a body has me.
In recent dreams I am so much in the body I can’t remember the dreams, events of sensation that pass as soon as they occur.
I believe this is a healing.
I am tired.
No prefrontal cortex need be involved to make meaning from the sleeping experience.
No mammalian brain is stimulated, and the reptilian?
It seems the body has its own brain: the location of body thought is in the cells and perhaps in subtle fields, and wraiths of experience are untraceable, but they exist.
They exist like anything else fleeting and untraced, untracked, registered and gone with no print, a healing trail read only in the better, the good, the relieved, the lessening of pain, the presence of hope and possibility.
We bend our heads, listening, looking, smelling, sensing, to understand and come into alignment with the healed, suspended in a state we cannot understand, and that’s a good thing.

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