Sometimes it's hard to see the world as a magical place. There is much we can think about, but in the end it's what's in front of us, what's surrounding us, what we can capture with our senses.
When everything is still and quiet on the outside, and still and quiet on the inside, it's as if I didn't really exist.
What's it all made of?
What's all this stuff in between,
in between the two quiet stillnesses?
Are the trees really made of the same stuff my body is?
Is the space between that tree and I also of the same material?
Are we really all one, all this stuff and I?
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