Stream Of Consciousness Poem by Mihaela Pirjol

Behind these locked doors: quietness and well-being,
outside: the agitation of existence, and a terrible storm!
My small fluffy-white dog is fast asleep, curled comfortably
on my lap; the other fluffy-white dog—the big, furred Samoyed,
though blind, he closed his eyes and sleeps as soundly as
this little one here. The brown one, though half-paralysed,
he is relaxing his all four legs; and all three, take peacefully
their respiration. Even the parrots in their cage, this time of day,
sleep with the beaks in their plumage of blue and yellow-green.
I look at the aquarium: he is not there! —the only fish left! —
the flat cleaner, always working, glued to the glass like a leech,
always working: this time of day, even he is sleeping
inside a large sea-snail shell—ornaments to match his habitat:
it must be the weather...
The palm-tree leaves, like agitated shadows, bend...
bend on the rhythm of a chaotic wind projected onto the door;
but, I managed to save the dark-pink rose this morning;
and now, few hours later, she unfurled her beauty: I think,
she is happier here with me, with the dogs, the parrots, and the fish.
I look at the pine-tree I planted in a large pot this winter,
which I decorated as a Christmas-tree—I think he is happier now, too: green in his simplicity, in his natural beauty—
(Is it a boy or a girl?)
probably a boy...he is tall, vigorous, upwards stretching his branches:
he does not need bracelets, globes, stars, angels, and lights
to feel handsome, I guess...
‘Why do you write this? ' —Ah...! —the inner voice!
Probably she feels ignored as I immersed myself
in the simple, authentic awareness of the present moment;
Ah…she wants me back in the past; in torments and agonies;
she wants me to correlate everything with it;
she wants me back in illusions and obsessions; or,
she wants me to catapult into a mysterious future,
to wreck me with worries, and frighten me with fears;
she wants me to reduce and renounce my dreams;
she wants me to self-sacrifice.
Thus, the tranquillity vanished, disrupted by the interior voice
which suddenly asked me, ‘Why am I doing this? '
writing about my surroundings, about how it feels to be present,
with whole your being: —You see, now I divagate
from my initial trajectory—I have to answer the ‘Voice, '
wondering if it belongs to me; and, if ‘yes, ' then why is she
an antagonist—disrupting my serenity—and thus I find myself
engaged in a dialog, and I almost forgot about my dogs,
my parrots, my fish, the weather outside, and
the agitation of existence—like my own agitation!
Now, I am aware that I am writing:
she disturbed me immensely! —now another parallel dialog
emerges: —Oh! ...the rational...the practical!
Being aware that I am writing, now, I have to be aware
of what, and how I am writing—and the stream of consciousness:
—it is gone! —there! —
All because of my inner voice!