Sometimes, my life moves quietly on its own, without anyone and anything holding it together. All these moments open and close as heartbeats, belonging to no one, asking nothing in return. It’s all yours.

And then the stories gather around what happens, and the masks are worn for a while. There is nothing beneath them, though.

What seems solid softens when looked at closely. I see everything is already shifting, already becoming something else.

Yet, patterns return. There are indeed familiar melodies. Still, no hidden singer stands behind the song. There is only the music. There always was.

Rising and fading. Clear and unclaimed.

You’re on Your Own—In a World You’ve Grown

Where exactly is the owner of this very experience located? Am I that owner? I guess I don’t know.

Even before I think of what is “mine”, what is missing? I cannot find it as I found it all.

Do sensations ask for a center to occur? I missed them already. If there is no point, what changes?

What remains if I don’t collect what is not made? I am a bit exhausted.

The Moment I Wake Up, Before I Put On My Make-up

So much happens all the time. But is this new thought describing what’s real, or telling a story? Without my commentary, what is present? I am not sure.

So, here I am. Yet, does this role define anything essential? I still breathe.

If all the labels are removed, what still works? Can this function without keeping me busy? I think I can know exactly.

End the Vows—No Need to Lie

Not all needs to be followed. Maybe even only a few things. And I could see if I don’t forget that it is already gone anyway. Is it static or does it change?

But I might only tell myself that there is solid ground. Even for a moment. One event, or another. But perhaps I was mistaken; there was nothing to hold on to.

And I really don’t need to make much sense of that.

The unfinished painting. The book I never started to read. The memory that faded a long time ago.

The loop keeps open. And that is okay, because that is real.

I Dreamt That I Was Dreaming, I Was Wired to a Clock

Arrivals demand departure. And locations depend on other places. I can think of that, but sometimes I don’t need to.

When I remember, do I just recall? It’s possible I want to prove myself something.

It is a series of flaws and faults, interrupted with betterment. But actually, I made that up again.

So, I might see what’s going on right now. Everything that happens needs to happen just like that. What else could be real?

That’s not my time at all. So, where is anything unstable?

Have I lived? What do I carry around? Is this my career that I announce to everyone, including myself?

I arrange the series of moments to tell myself I could predict them. But can I be in charge?

So even my memories are just appearing. All my ideas are not planned. I will greet them all and also say goodbye.

You Told Me All Doors Are Open to the Believer

Maybe things just happen. And no one has to be in the middle, making them happen. What everyone sees and feels is just there. It doesn’t belong to anyone.

Still, everyone sometimes offers explanations for what is going on and why. But that is not what things truly are. So, everyone is sometimes a friend or a student. But that is never everything.

What looks like a fixed thing is really something moving. Even when it feels like the same one from yesterday to today, that is just another part of what is happening.

Function remains. Distortion fades. Nothing is gained.

So, why should I pity someone’s selfishness? They just try to take care. And that is not easy.

If I perceive injustice because my conditions are what they are, this is equally true for everyone else. Luck and misfortune are not under control. We are in this together.

You are always welcome.