I look down at my feet and notice that I’m wearing my right sock inside out. ‘This is a story!’, I think to myself.

The blouse of the woman sitting in front of me is making my head spin, once reminding me of nougat and candy with its brown and pink and white dots, strings and smears; and then infuriating because of its ugliness (!) and dominance over my field of sight.

I ponder a Brand New Me list, including a drastic hair cut, and expansion of my current dragon tattoo that will include the entire spectrum of Shambhala’s mythical animals and a brand new home in Amsterdam to top off a picture perfect of the New and Improved Me!

Then, the freaky blouse takes over again, that by the way looks different now that I’ve talked to lady that’s wearing it and who is actually quite nice –a good refinement on my initial observation that ‘she looks like a character from the Simpsons’. I remember the smell of my ex’s skin. A sharp pain resonates in my heart telling me that I miss it, deeply.

I decide to turn my sock around the right way. I have some Brilliant Ideas about the Next Best poetry collection that I’m going to write and I go deep into a fantasy on how I will hit on the cute imaginary waitress in the restaurant where we will be eating later on. I invent a completely new and potentially dangerous contemplative meditation on how to use the energy of past and future lovers to wake up the heart to all sentient beings.  I wonder where the lady bought the freaky blouse.

In other words –if you hadn’t guessed it yet- I’m in a meditation program.  It’s tedious. But then sometimes, just sometimes, I touch on something so profound and completely beyond any doubt hat is so real that it fills my mind and touches my heart in a way that makes me want to cry.

That's enough.