Rubber Soul (We Didn’t Mean to go to Sea).

Plastic soul, man, plastic soul.

The malleability, extendability of the mind.

You can quieten it, and calm it, and dive within it and step outside it. Whatever you want to do. Don’t try too hard.

Let it come to you.

What did he say? A spot of sunlight in your chest, spreading through your body. Something; you weren’t listening.

Let it come to you.

 

Breathe in — through the nose. And out — through the mouth — slowly, lips pursed to slow it down, slowly, all the way out. In and out, slowly, all the way out.

And on the next out-breath, close your eyes. Gently.

Slowly, gently.

Return the breath to its rhythm.

Take note of the body. The underlying feeling? — that tightness in your chest, the tension in your stomach-muscles, that fiery spot of pain in your spine, the one in your pelvis, the strain in your shoulders. The way your jaw is held stiff, teeth apart, and all the muscles in your cheeks are tightened, gripping the lips shut.

The breath upon the upper lip. A silver thread of smoke. In, and out, slowly, all the way out.

In, and out, slowly, all the way out.

The breath on the upper lip. Count the breaths. One, and — up — two, and — down. Three, and — up — four, and — down. Up to ten, start again.

And another train passes outside.

Whispers. The city breathes.

Thinking — note it.

Feeling — note it.

Feel the breath passing on the upper lip. One, and — in — two, and — out. Three, and — in — four, and — out.

All the way out, out, out, out to sea.

We didn’t mean to go to sea.

Adrift. The current flowing in and out, the breath on your upper lip, the silver thread of smoke. At sea.