The storm’s over, the sun’s returned, and you’re the last snowflake to fall. When you land, the other snowflakes are already melting. And you think, In another life, I might have been rain.
Your eyes, looking back at you in wonder from the still water of a shimmering pond, and you, not noticing, as you comb your hair in front of the mirror.
I, me, mine — we suffer to the extent that we cling to the idea of our individuality.
Where I am not and the body is, pain rings like a bell.
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Categories: A Few More Scratches