Mental manuever

In the book of the dead, there is allot of emphasis on the ghost of the deceased remembering that all the things he sees are emmations of his own true mind, and the implication is that this applies to those who live as well, especially because a ghost trapped in the Bardo might not even know it is dead, exampled in the low brow "Sixth Sense" movie.
This is something I wrote awhile back, trying to describe this kind of state of mind, the transition out of one state into another, out of egoism into oneness, in this case.

Sacred night that lasts too long, and in the morning frantic buzzing and looking out windows at a rising sun to loud rock and roll with the neighbors all tossing and turning and wishing somewhere that you’d die or move out.
Given time, both these hopes will come to fruition.

Its too small in this house, where thoughts gain in urgency and the ceiling presses down on me leeringly.
I have a bad neck. My feet are flat. My lungs are weaker than most and yet I fill them with smoke and cough throughout the winter. I am loud when drunk. I cannot stand the empty boredom but rush to fill the space with a thousand trivialities, complicating my life to no result, signifying nothing. In the end, there is only tears and even these are a poor expression of how I feel. Now is the time, here in this hour, with the cat piss stinking socks and the barn wood swirling truths, let me hold my hatred from a distance, laugh at it and rise above it not through its destruction but its castration as a pastime, a joke, another triviality.

I passed a bush cloaked in rough draperies of ragged bark, dappled in green gray moss that clung to life in the winter cold. The bush stood out before me, impressed its silhouette upon me so that I saw it etched across my face, and at once it was as though it were growing from a sapling right before my eyes. It’s darkened silhouette shot up from the ground and splintered outward into frantic tendrils sheathed in sky. And I was those tendrils, a spiritual copulation and commingling of high and low, a metaphysical awareness that all things were essentially all other things, and that their inter relatedness made their borders and boundaries stale, hollow, obsolete, cold...

The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew tree are one.
Can you keep track of my tenses?