What if nothing that has happened was ever out of place?

If time were not something to beat, what would actually be late?

If seeking promises arrival, what does it quietly persuade us to leave behind?

Why does the mind wait for significance before allowing presence?

On realizing that silence is not a result, but a background.

On existence prior to interpretation, purpose, or story.

When someone goes, what is it that actually goes?

Then why does the sense of lack feel so convincing, so intimate, as if it belongs to us?

There is one way of breathing that is shameful and constricted. Then, there’s another way: a breath of love that takes you all the way to infinity. ~ Rumi