i'm full of inspiration for whatever reason.
And i feel like writing prose.
But my sentences keep getting shorter
and my thoughts keep getting longer
but they can't seem to string themselves together.

It's early evening in the mountains somewhere
and i don't know where,
but i'm sure you're there.
thinking something wise,
being everything you are
with everything you've got.

i think i miss you.

but i'm not sure
and i don't know how.
because i don't even know you.

maybe because when i look in the mirror,
i see you.

i know this is about more than just me,
but the sangha insists i tell my story:
I was just a little girl when I realized
that, truth be told,
we're more than just bodies.

we're bigger, we're wiser
it's all so much more surreal.
To suggest
that all I know is what I've lived,
it seems ridiculous.

I feel older.

It shouldn't be a surprise
that of all these years,
a peace has been made
that people are starting to tap into.

Finally, I've found my beliefs;
and it's peaceful.