What if this life we’re living is no more than a blip in time. a casualty. space travel.
a journey’s end to the beginning of existence.
all that has happened or yet to happen
never did. never does.
but the mind
calloused by effort
systematically records, keeping track of every detail
forcing order
when all that is
all that we have
is order
effortless. formless. shapeless.
as seen in the clouds that shift with the wind
and in the trees that dance within the breeze
and in the waves that swell in the midst of a storm
and in the beating hearts of the few who nest with the crows.
